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MARGOT  ASQUITH 

AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

TWO    VOLUMES    IN    ONE 

WITH   TWENTY-THREE    ILLUSTRATIONS 

AND  NUMEROUS  REPRODUCTIONS  OF 

ORIGINAL  [DRAWINGS 


3     •         »      >  3         * 


«         •*,•.!•         •,«•••  •  • 


MAROOT  ASQUITH  AS  8HB 
IS  TODAY 


.•-    • •  • 


MARGOT  AsOt/tTH 

AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


TWO   VOLUMES    IN    ONE 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  yUUr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


•••••••••»., •  •  »   , 


COPYRIGHT,     1920, 
BY  GEORGE    H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 


I    DEDICATE 
THIS  BOOK 

TO 

MY  HUSBAND 


What  ?  Have  you  not  received  powers,  to  the 
limits  of  which  you  will  hear  all  that  befalls  ? 
Have  you  not  received  magnanimity  ?  Have 
you  not  received  courage?  Have  you  not 
received  endurance  ? — Epictetus 


4G2713 


PREFACE 

When  I  began  this  book  I  feared  that  its  merit 
would  depend  upon  how  faithfully  I  could  record 
my  own  impressions  of  people  and  events:  when 
I  had  finished  it  I  was  certain  of  it.  Had  it  been 
any  other  kind  of  book  the  judgment  of  those  near- 
est me  would  have  been  invaluable,  but,  being  what 
it  is,  it  had  to  be  entirely  my  own;  since  whoever 
writes  as  he  speaks  must  take  the  whole  responsibil- 
ity, and  to  ask  "Do  you  think  I  may  say  this?"  or 
"write  that?"  is  to  shift  a  little  of  that  responsibility 
on  to  someone  else.  This  I  could  not  bear  to  do, 
above  all  in  the  case  of  my  husband,  who  sees  these 
recollections  for  the  first  time  now.  My  only  liter- 
ary asset  is  natural  directness,  and  that  faculty 
would  have  been  paralysed  if  I  thought  anything 
that  I  have  written  here  would  implicate  him.  I 
would  rather  have  made  a  hundred  blunders  of  style 
or  discretion  than  seem,  even  to  myself,  let  alone 
the  ^orld  at  large,  to  have  done  that. 

Unlike  many  memoirists,  the  list  of  people  I 
have  to  thank  in  this  preface  is  short:  Lord  Crewe 

[vii] 


PREFACE 

and  Mr.Texeira  de  Mattos — who  alone  saw  my  MS. 
before  its  completion — for  their  careful  criticisms 
which  in  no  way  committed  them  to  approving  of 
all  that  I  have  written;  Mr.  Desmond  MacCarthy, 
for  valuable  suggestions ;  and  my  typist,  Miss  Lea, 
for  her  silence  and  quickness. 

There  are  not  many  then  of  whom  I  can  truly 
say,  "Without  their  approval  and  encouragement 
this  book  would  never  have  been  written" — but 
those  who  really  love  me  will  forgive  me  and  know 
that  what  I  owe  them  is  deeper  than  thanks. 

Maegot  Asquith. 


[viii] 


PAQS 


CONTENTS  OF 
BOOK    ONE 

CHAPTER  I 

The  Tennant  Family — Margot,  One  of  Twelve  Children — 
Home  Life  in  Glen,  Scotland— Father  a  Self-centred 
Business-man;  His  Vanities;  His  Pride  in  His  Children — 
News  of  His  Death — Handsome  Lord  Ribblesdale  Visits 
Glen — Mother  Delicate;  Her  Love  of  Economy;  Con- 
fidences— Tennant  Girls'  Love  Affairs 13 

CHAPTER  II 

Glen  Among  the  Moors — Margot's  Adventure  with  a  Tramp — 
The  Shepherd  Boy — Memories  and  Escapades — Laura  and 
Margot;  Proposals  of  Marriage — New  Men  Friends — 
Laura  Engaged;  Proposal  in  the  Dusk — Margot's  Accident 
IN  Hunting  Field — Laura's  Premonition  of  Death  in 
Childbirth — ^Laura's  Will 46 

CHAPTER  III 

Slumming  in  London;  Adventure  in  Whitechapel;  Brawl  in 
A  Saloon;  Outings  with  Working  Girls — Margot  Meets 
Princess  of  Wales — Gossip  Over  Friendship  with  Prince 
of  Wales — Lady  Randolph  Churchill's  Ball — Margot's 
First  Hunt;  Meets  Eccentric  Duke  of  Beaufort;  Falls 
IN  Love  AT  Seventeen;  Commandeers  A  Horse 108 

CHAPTER  IV 

Margot  at  a  Girls'  School — Who  Spilt  the  Ink? — The  Engine 
Driver's  Mistaken  Flirtation — Margot  Leaves  School  in 
Disgust — Decides  to  Go  to  Germany  to  Study  ....     144 

CHAPTER  V 

A  Dresden  Lodging  House — Midnight  Adventure  with  an 
Officer  After  the  Opera — An  Elderly  American  Admirer — 
Yellow  Ros£S,  Gbaf  Von ,  and  Motifs  from  Wagner    159 


[ix] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  VI 

Margot  Rides  Hohse  into  London  Home  and  Smashes  Pubniture 
— Suitor  is  Forbidden  the  House — Advises  Girl  Friend  to 
Elope;  Interview  with  Girl's  Father — Tete-a-tete  Dinner 
IN  Paris  with  Baron  Hirsch — Winning  Tip  from  Fred  Archer 
THE  Jockey 174 

CHAPTER  VII 

Phoenix  Park  Murders — Remedies  for  Ireland — ^Telepathy 
AND  Planchette — VisiT  TO  Blavatsky — SiR  Charles  Dilke's 
Kiss — Visits  to  Gladstone — ^The  Late  Lord  Salisbury's 
Political  Prophecies 203 

CHAPTER  VIII 

The  Beautiful  Kate  Vaughan — Coached  by  Coquelin  in  Moliere 
— Rosebery's  Popularity  and  Eloquence — Campbell-Ban- 
NERMAN  Bon-fyivant  and  Boulevardier — Balfour's  Mot;  His 
Charm  and  Wit;  His  Tastes  and  Preferences;  His  Religious 
Speculation 244 


[xl 


CONTENTS    OF. 
BOOK  TWO 

CHAPTER  I 

PAOS 

The  Souls — ^Lord  Curzon's  Poem  and  Dinner  Party  and  Who 
Were  There — Margot's  Inventory  of  the  Group — ^Tilt 
WITH  THE  Late  Lady  Londonderry — ^Visit  to  Tennyson;  His 
Contempt  for  Critics;  His  Habit  of  Living — ^J.  K.  S.  Not  a 
Soul — Margot's  Friendship  with  John  Addinqton  Symonds; 
His  Praise  of  Marie  Bashkirtseff 11 

CHAPTER  II 

Character  Sketch  of  Margot — Plans  to  Start  a  Magazine — 
Meets  Master  of  Balliol;  Jowett's  Orthodoxy;  His  In- 
terest IN  AND  Influence  Over  Margot — Rose  in  "Robert 
Elsmere"  Identified  as  Margot — Jowett's  Opinion  of  New- 
man— Jowett  Advises  Margot  to  Marry — Huxley's  Blas- 
phemy       77 

CHAPTER  III 

Fast  and  Furious  Hunting  in  Leicestershire — Country  House 
Party  and  a  New  Admirer — Friendship  with  Lord  and 
Lady  Manners 131 

CHAPTER  IV 

Margot  Falls  in  Love  Again — "Havoc"  in  the  Hunting  Field; 
A  Fall  and  a  Ducking — ^The  Famous  Mrs.  Bo;  Unheeded 
Advice  from  a  Rival — A  Lovers'  Quarrel — Peter  Jumps  in 
THE  Window — The  American  Trotter — Another  Lover  In- 
tervenes— Peter  Returns  from  India;  Illumination  from  a 
Dark  Woman 137 

CHAPTER  V 

The  Asquith  Family  Tree — Herbert  H.  Asquith's  Mother — 
Asquith's  First  Marriage;  Meets  Margot  Tennant  for  First 


[xi] 


CONTENTS 

PAQB 

Time — Talk  Till  Dawn  on  House  of  Commons'  Tebbace; 
Other  Meetings — Engagement  a  London  Sensation — Mab- 
RLiGE  an  Event 191 

CHAPTER  VI 

The  Asquith  Children  by  the  First  Marriage — Margot's 
Stepdaughter  Violet — Memory  of  the  First  Mrs.  Asquith — 
Raymond's  Brilliant  Career — Arthur's  Heroism  in  the  War    208 

CHAPTER  Vn 

Visit  to  Woman's  Prison — Interview  There  with  Mrs.  Maybrick 
— Scene  in  a  Lifer's  Cell;  the  Husband  Who  Never  Knew 
Thought  Wife  Made  Money  Sewing — Margot's  Plea  that 
Failed 237 

CHAPTER  VIII 

Margot's  First  Baby  and  Its  Loss — Dangerous  Illness — Letter 
FROM  Queen  Victoria — Sir  William  Harcourt's  Pleasantries 
— Asquith  Ministry  Falls — Visit  from  Duchess  D'Aosta  .     .     251 

CHAPTER  IX 

Margot  in  1906  Sums  Up  Her  Life;  a  Lot  of  Love-making,  a 
Little  Fame  and  More  Abuse:  a  Real  Man  and  Great  Hap- 
piness      265 

INDEX 
Complete  for  Books  One  and  Two    ...;•;••••.     275 


[xii] 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF 
BOOK  ONE 

Mabaot  Asqutth,  as  She  Is  To-day  ......      Frontispiece 

PAGE 

SiH  Charles  Texn^ant  of  Glen;  Father  of  Margot  Asquith  ,      26 

Glen:  Home  of  the  Tennants  Among  the  Scottish  Moors 

Where  Margot  Was  Born 27 

Mrs.  Asquith's  Mother 58 

Lord  Ribblesdale,  Whose  First  Wife  Was  Charty  Tennant.  He 

Afterward  Married  Mrs.  John  Astor  [Ava  Willing]  .     .       59 

Lady  Aylesbury;  Drawing  by  Margot  Tennant  at  Althorp, 

March,   1891 71 

Portrait  of  Queen  Victoria  in  Four  Lines,  by  Alma  Tadema, 

R.A.,  1890 75 

Drawing   of   Gladstone,   by   His   Irish   Political   Opponent, 

Colonel  Sanderson 81 

Lord  Glenconner 90 

"The  Three  Sisters":  From  a  Painting  by  John  S.  Sargent  .       91 

Letter  to  Margot  from  the  Princess  of  Wales,  April,  1890  .     119 

Letter  from  Princess  of  Wales  Congratulating  Margot  Ten- 
nant on  Her  Engagement  to  Mr.  Asquith 123 

Caricature  of  Lord  Randolph  Churchill  on  the  Occasion  of 

His  Trip  to  South  Africa 129 

The  Duke  of  Beaufort:  Master  of  the  Beaufort  Hunt  .     .     138 

Dr.  Benjamin  Jowett,  the  Famous  Master  of  Balliol   .     ,     139 

Margot  Asquith's   Two  Children,  Anthony  and   Elizabeth 

(now   Princess   Bibesco) 186 

Pbincess    Bibesco,    Margot   Asquith's    Only   Daughter,   Who 

Married  Prince  Bibesco,  Rumanian  Diplomat  .     .     .     .     187 

[xiii] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAG> 

Fred  Archer,  Famous  Jockey 199 

Sketch  by  Margot,  of  Gladstoke  Felliko  a  Tree  ....     223 

Same,  as  It  Was  Actually  REPa(H>ncEo  ik  "The  Evening  Dis- 
patch.'*  225 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Asquith,  as  They  Appeared  in  1895,  One  Year 
After  Margot's  Marriage  to  the  Great  Liberal  States- 
man         234 

Joseph  Chamberlain,  Who  Broke  with  Gladstone  Over  Irish 

Home  Rule 235 

The  Man  and  His  Shadow  (Chamberlain  and  Asuuith)  .     .    239 


[xir] 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF 
BOOK  TWO 


PAOB 

Mabgot,  Leading  Spirit  of  the  Souls.    Pencil  Drawing  by 

THE  Duchess  of  Rutland 38 

The  Right  Honourable  Arthur  James  Balfour,  as  He  Ap- 
peared IN  THE  House  of  Commons  During  the  80's  ...       39 

Stanza  Written  by  Lord  Tennyson  for  Margot  at  Aldworth, 

1884:  Hitherto  Unpublished  Tribute  to  Sir  Walter  Scott      51 

Godfrey    Webb:    Member    of   the    Souls   and    Gk)DFATHER    of 

Princess  Bibesco 70 

Earl  of  Pembroke,  Member  of  the  Souls 71 

Lord  Midleton,  Better  Known  as  S*r.  John  Brodrick,  Former 

Secretary  of  State  for  War 118 

John  Addington  Symonds,  Who  Encouraged  Margot's  Literary 

Endeavours 118 

Four  Generations  of  England's  Royal  Family:  Queen  Vic- 
toria, King  Edward  VII,  King  George  V,  and  the  Prince 
OF  Wales 119 

W.  E.  Gladstone,  Great  Liberal  Statesman,  Whose  Nephew 
Arthur  Lyttleton  Married  Laura  Tennant,  Margot's 
Sister 150 

Viscount  Grey  of  Fallodon,  Friend  of  the  Asquith  Family, 
AND  Secretary  of  State  for  Foreign  Affairs  When  Eng- 
land Sent  the  Ultimatum  to  Germany  in  1914   .      .      .     151 

Herbert  Henry  Asquith,  as  He  Was  When  He  Resigned  the 

Premiership  to  Lloyd  George  During  the  War  ....     198 

Raymond  Asquith,  Son  of  Herbert  Henry  Asquith  by  His 
First  Marriage.  He  Was  Killed  in  Belgium  During  the 
War 198 

[XV] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Maroot  Asquith  and  Her  Son  Anthony,  Whose  Influence 
Over  Her,  She  Says  in  Her  Diary,  Has  Been  Greater 
Than  That  of  Any  Other  Human  Being 199 

Announcement  in  'The  New  York  Herald"  of  the  Engage- 
ment of  Margot  Tennant  and  Herrert  Henry  Abquith    201 

Home  Secretaries,  Past  and  Present 043 


[xvi] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 
AN   AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

BOOK  ONE 


^/^ 


"Prudence  is  a  rich,  ugly  old  maid 
wooed  by  incapacity.'* 

Blake. 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  TENNANT   FAMILY — MARGOT,   ONE  OF  TWELVE 

CHILDREN HOME   LIFE   IN   GLEN,   SCOTLAND 

FATHER    A    SELF-CENTRED    BUSINESS-MAN;    HIS 
vanities;  his  pride  in  his  children NEWS 

of  his  death handsome  lord  ribblesdale 

visits  glen mother  delicate ;  her  love  of 

economy;     confidences — tennant     girls' 
love  affairs 

1WAS  born  in  the  country  of  Hogg  and  Scotti 
between  the  Yarrow  and  the  Tweed,  in  the 
year  1864. 

I  am  one  of  twelve  children,  but  I  only  knew 
eight,  as  the  others  died  when  I  was  young.  My 
eldest  sister  Pauline — or  Posie,  as  we  called  her — 
was  born  in  1855  and  married  on  my  tenth  birth- 
day one  of  the  best  of  men,  Thomas  Gordon  DufF.* 
She  died  of  tuberculosis,  the  cruel  disease  by  which 

*Thomas  Gordon  Duflf,  of  Drummuir  Castle,  Keitij. 

[13] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

my  family  have  all  been  pursued.  We  were  too 
different  in  age  and  temperament  to  be  really  in- 
timate, but  her  goodness,  patience  and  pluck  made 
a  deep  impression  on  me. 

My  second  sister,  Charlotte,  was  born  in  1858 
and  married,  when  I  was  thirteen,  the  present  Lord 
Ribblesdale,  in  1877.  She  was  the  only  member 
of  the  family — except  my  brother  Edward  Glen- 
conner — ^who  was  tall.  My  mother  attributed  this 
— and  her  good  looks — to  her  wet-nurse,  Janet 
Mercer,  a  mill-girl  at  Innerleithen,  noted  for  her 
height  and  beauty.  Charty — as  we  called  her — 
was  in  some  ways  the  most  capable  of  us  all,  but 
she  had  not  Laura's  genius,  Lucy's  talents,  nor 
my  understanding.  She  had  wonderful  grace  and 
less  vanity  than  any  one  that  ever  lived;  and  her 
social  courage  was  a  perpetual  joy.  I  heard  her 
say  to  the  late  Lord  Rothschild,  one  night  at  a 
dinner  party: 

"And  do  you  still  believe  the  Messiah  is  coming, 
Lord  Natty?" 

Once  when  her  husband  went  to  make  a  political 
speech  in  the  country,  she  telegraphed  to  him: 

"Mind  you  hit  below  the  belt!" 

She  was  full  of  nature  and  impulse,  free,  enter- 
[14] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

prising  and  unconcerned.  She  rode  as  well  as  I 
did,  but  was  not  so  quick  to  hounds  nor  so  con- 
scious of  what  was  going  on  all  round  her. 

One  day  when  the  Rifle  Brigade  was  quartered 
at  Winchester,  Ribblesdale — who  was  a  captain — 
sent  Charty  out  hunting  with  old  Tubb,  the  famous 
dealer,  from  whom  he  had  hired  her  mount.  As 
he  could  not  accompany  her  himself,  he  was  anxious 
to  know  how  her  ladyship  had  got  on;  the  old 
rascal — wanting  to  sell  his  horse — ^raised  his  eyes 
to  heaven  and  gasped : 

"Hornamental  palings!    My  lord!!" 

It  was  difficult  to  find  a  better-looking  couple 
than  Charty  and  Ribblesdale;  I  have  often  ob- 
served people  following  them  in  picture-galleries; 
and  their  photographs  appeared  in  many  of  the 
London  shop-windows. 

My  next  sister,  Lucy,*  was  the  most  talented 
and  the  best  educated  of  the  family.  She  fell  be- 
tween two  stools  in  her  youth,  because  Charty  and 
Posie  were  of  an  age  to  be  companions  and  Laura 
and  I;  consequently  she  did  not  enjoy  the  happy 
childhood  that  we  did  and  was  mishandled  by  the 
authorities  both  in  the  nursery  and  the  schoolroom. 

•Mrs.  Graham  Smith,  of  Easton  Grey,  Malmesbuiy. 

[15] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

When  I  was  thirteen  she  made  a  foolish  engage- 
ment, so  that  our  real  intimacy  only  began  after 
her  marriage.  She  was  my  mother's  favourite 
child — ^which  none  of  us  resented — and,  although 
like  my  father  in  hospitality,  courage  and  generous 
giving,  she  had  my  mother's  stubborn  modesty  and 
delicacy  of  mind.  Her  fear  of  hurting  the  feel- 
ings of  others  was  so  great  that  she  did  not  tell 
people  what  she  was  thinking;  she  was  truthful 
but  not  candid.  Her  drawings — ^both  in  pastel  and 
water-colour — ^her  portraits,  landscapes  and  inter- 
iors were  further  removed  from  amateur  work  than 
Laura's  piano-playing  or  my  dancing;  and,  had  she 
put  her  wares  into  the  market,  as  we  all  wanted  her 
to  do  years  ago,  she  would  have  been  a  rich  woman, 
but  like  all  saints  she  was  uninfluenceable.  I  owe 
her  too  much  to  write  about  her:  tormented  by  pain 
and  crippled  by  arthritis,  she  has  shown  a  heroism 
and  gaiety  which  command  the  love  and  respect 
of  all  who  meet  her. 

Of  my  other  sister,  Laura,  I  will  write  later. 

The  boys  of  the  family  were  different  from  the 

girls,  though  they  all  had  charm  and  an  excellent 

sense  of  humour.    My  mother  said  the  difference 

between  her  boys  and  girls  came  from  circulation, 

[16] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

and  would  add,  "The  Winsloes  always  had  cold 
feet";  but  I  think  it  lay  in  temper  and  tempera- 
ment. They  would  have  been  less  apprehensive 
and  more  serene  if  they  had  been  brought  up  to 
some  settled  profession;  and  they  were  quite  clever 
enough  to  do  most  things  well. 

My  brother  Jack*  was  petted  and  mismanaged 
in  his  youth.  He  had  a  good  figure,  but  his  height 
was  arrested  by  his  being  allowed,  when  he  was  a 
little  fellow,  to  walk  twelve  to  fifteen  miles  a  day 
with  the  shooters ;  and,  however  tired  he  would  be, 
he  was  taken  out  of  bed  to  play  billiards  after  din- 
ner. Leather  footstools  were  placed  one  on  the  top 
of  the  other  by  a  proud  papa  and  the  company 
made  to  watch  this  lovely  little  boy  score  big 
breaks;  excited  and  exhausted,  he  would  go  to  bed 
long  after  midnight,  with  praises  singing  in  his 
ears. 

"You  are  more  like  lions  than  sisters!"  he  said 
one  day  in  the  nursery  when  we  snubbed  him. 

In  making  him  his  Parliamentary  Secretary,  my 
husband  gave  him  his  first  chance;  and  in  spite  of 
his  early  training  and  teasing  he  turned  his  life  to 
good  account. 

*The  Right  Hon.  H.  J.  Tcnnant. 

[17] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

In  the  terrible  years  1914,  1915  and  1916,  he 
was  Under-Secretary  for  War  to  the  late  Lord 
Kitchener  and  was  finally  made  Secretary  for 
Scotland,  with  a  seat  in  the  Cabinet.  Like  every 
Tennant,  he  had  tenderness  and  powers  of  emotion 
and  showed  much  affection  and  generosity  to  his 
family.  He  was  a  fine  sportsman  with  an  excep- 
tionally good  eye  for  games. 

My  brother  Frank*  was  the  artist  among  the 
boys.  He  had  a  perfect  ear  for  music  and  eye  for 
colour  and  could  distinguish  what  was  beautiful 
in  everything  he  saw.  He  had  the  sweetest  temper 
of  any  of  us  and  the  most  humility. 

In  his  youth  he  had  a  horrible  tutor  who  showed 
him  a  great  deal  of  cruelty ;  and  this  retarded  his 
development.  One  day  at  Glen,  I  saw  this  man 
knock  Frank  down.  Furious  and  indignant,  I 
said,  "You  brute !"  and  hit  him  over  the  head  with 
both  my  fists.  After  he  had  boxed  my  ears,  Laura 
protested,  saying  she  would  tell  my  father,  where- 
upon he  toppled  her  over  on  the  floor  and  left  the 
room. 

When  I  think  of  our  violent  teachers — ^both 
tutors   and   governesses — and  what  the  brothers 

*  Francis  Tennant,  of  Innes. 

[18] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

learnt  at  Eton,  I  am  surprised  that  we  knew  as 
much  as  we  did  and  my  parents'  helplessness  be- 
wilders me. 

My  eldest  brother,  Eddy,*  though  very  different 
from  me  in  temperament  and  outlook,  was  the  one 
with  whom  I  got  on  best.  We  were  both  devoured 
by  impatience  and  punctuality  and  loved  being 
alone  in  the  country.  He  hated  visiting,  I  enjoyed 
it;  he  detested  society  and  I  delighted  in  it.  My 
mother  was  not  strong  enough  to  take  me  to  balls ; 
and  as  she  was  sixty-three  the  year  I  came  out, 
Eddy  was  by  way  of  chaperoning  me,  but  I  can 
never  remember  him  bringing  me  back  from  a 
single  party.  We  each  had  our  latch-keys  and  I 
went  home  either  by  myself  or  with  a  partner. 

We  shared  a  secret  and  passionate  love  for  our 
home.  Glen,  and  knew  every  clump  of  heather  and 
every  birch  and  burn  in  the  place.  Herbert  Glad- 
stone told  me  that,  one  day  in  India,  when  he  and 
Eddy  after  a  long  day's  shooting  were  resting  in 
silence  on  the  ground,  he  said  to  him: 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  Eddy?" 

To  which  he  answered : 

"Oh,  always  the  same  .  .  .  Glen!  .  .  ." 

*Lord  Glenconner,  of  Glen,  Innerleithen. 

[19] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

In  all  the  nine  years  during  which  he  and  I  lived 
there  together,  in  spite  of  our  mutual  irascibility  of 
temper  and  uneven  spirits,  we  never  had  a  quarrel. 
Whether  we  joined  each  other  on  the  moor  at  the 
far  shepherd's  cottage  or  waited  for  grouse  upon 
the  hill;  whether  we  lunched  on  the  Quair  or  fished 
on  the  Tweed,  we  have  a  thousand  common  mem- 
ories to  keep  our  hearts  together. 

My  father*  was  a  man  whose  vitality,  irritability, 
energy  and  impressionability  amounted  to  genius. 

When  he  died,  June  2nd,  1906,  I  wrote  this  in 
my  diary: 

"I  was  sitting  in  Elizabeth'sf  schoolroom  at  Lit- 
tlestone  yesterday — Whit-Monday — after  hearing 
her  recite  Tartuffe  at  7  p.m.,  when  James  gave  me 
a  telegram;  it  was  from  my  stepmother: 

"  'Your  father  passed  away  peacefully  at  five 
this  afternoon.' 

"I  covered  my  face  with  my  hands  and  went  to 
find  my  husband.  My  father  had  been  ill  for  some 
time,  but,  having  had  a  letter  from  him  that  morn- 
ing, the  news  gave  me  a  shock. 

"Poor  little  Elizabeth  was  terribly  upset  at  my 

•Sir  Charles  Tennant,  1823-1906. 
f  My  daughter,  Elizabeth  Bibesco. 

[20] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

unhappiness;  and  I  was  moved  to  the  heart  by  her 
saying  with  tear-filled  eyes  and  a  white  face: 

"  'Darling  mother,  he  had  a  very  happy  life  and 
is  very  happy  now  ...  he  will  always  be  happy.' 

"This  was  true.  .  .  .  He  had  been  and  always 
will  be  happy,  because  my  father's  nature  turned 
out  no  waste  product:  he  had  none  of  that  useless 
stuff  in  him  that  lies  in  heaps  near  factories.  He 
took  his  own  happiness  with  him  and  was  self-cen- 
tred and  self-sufficing:  for  a  sociable  being,  the  most 
self-sufficing  I  have  ever  known;  I  can  think  of  no 
one  of  such  vitality  who  was  so  independent  of  other 
people;  he  could  golf  alone,  play  billiards  alone, 
walk  alone,  shoot  alone,  fish  alone,  do  everything 
alone ;  and  yet  he  was  dependent  on  both  my  mother 
and  my  stepmother  and  on  all  occasions  loved  simple 
playfellows.  .  .  .  Some  one  to  carry  his  clubs,  or 
to  wander  round  the  garden  with,  would  make  him 
perfectly  happy.  It  was  at  these  times,  I  thinks 
that  my  father  was  at  his  sweetest.  Calm  as  a  sky 
after  showers,  he  would  discuss  every  topic  with 
tenderness  and  interest  and  appeared  to  be  unup- 
settable;  he  had  eternal  youth,  and  was  unaffected 
by  a  financial  world  which  had  been  spinning  round 
him  all  day. 

[21] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

"The  striking  thing  about  him  was  his  freedom 
from  suspicion.  Thrown  from  his  earliest  days 
among  common,  shrewd  men  of  singularly  unspir- 
itual  ideals — most  of  them  not  only  on  the  make 
but  I  might  almost  say  on  the  pounce — ^he  advanced 
on  his  own  lines  rapidly  and  courageously,  not  at 
all  secretively — almost  confidingly — yet  he  was 
rarely  taken  in. 

"He  knew  his  fellow-creatures  better  in  the  East- 
than  in  the  West-end  of  London  and  had  a  talent 
for  making  men  love  him;  he  swept  them  along  on 
the  impulse  of  his  own  decided  intentions.  He  was 
never  too  busy  nor  too  prosperous  to  help  the 
struggling  and  was  shocked  by  meanness  or  sharp 
practice,  however  successful, 

"There  were  some  people  whom  my  father  never 
understood,  good,  generous  and  high-minded  as  he 
was:  the  fanatic  with  eyes  turned  to  no  known  order 
of  things  filled  him  with  electric  impatience ;  he  did 
not  care  for  priests,  poets  or  philosophers ;  anything 
like  indecision,  change  of  plans,  want  of  order, 
method  or  punctuality,  forgetfulness  or  careless- 
ness— even  hesitation  of  voice  and  manner — drove 
him  mad ;  his  temperament  was  like  a  fuse  which  a 
touch  will  explode,  but  the  bomb  did  not  kill,  it 
[22] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

hurt  the  uninitiated  but  it  consumed  its  own  sparks. 
My  papa  had  no  self-control,  no  possibility  of  learn- 
ing it :  it  was  an  unknown  science,  like  geometry  or 
algebra,  to  him ;  and  he  had  very  little  imagination. 
It  was  this  combination — want  of  self-control  and 
want  of  imagination — ^which  prevented  him  from 
being  a  thinker. 

"He  had  great  character,  minute  observation,  a 
fine  memory  and  all  his  instincts  were  charged  with 
almost  superhuman  vitality,  but  no  one  could  argue 
with  him.  Had  the  foundation  of  his  character  been 
as  unreasonable  and  unreliable  as  his  temperament, 
he  would  have  made  neither  friends  nor  money ;  but 
he  was  fundamentally  sound,  ultimately  serene  and 
high-minded  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word.  He 
was  a  man  of  intellect,  but  not  an  intellectual  man; 
he  did  not  really  know  anything  about  the  great 
writers  or  thinkers,  although  he  had  read  odds  and 
ends.  He  was  essentially  a  man  of  action  and  a 
man  of  will;  this  is  why  I  call  him  a  man  of  intel- 
lect. He  made  up  his  mind  in  a  flash,  partly  from 
instinct  and  partly  from  will. 

"He  had  the  courage  for  life  and  the  enterprise 
to  spend  his  fortune  on  it.  He  was  kind  and  im- 
pulsively generous,  but  too  hasty  for  disease  to 

[23] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

accost  or  death  to  delay.  For  him  they  were  inter- 
ruptions, not  abiding  sorrows. 

"He  knew  nothing  of  rancour,  remorse,  regret; 
they  conveyed  much  the  same  to  him  as  if  he  had 
been  told  to  walk  backwards  and  received  neither 
sympathy  nor  courtesy  from  him. 

"He  was  an  artist  with  the  gift  of  admiration. 
He  had  a  good  eye  and  could  not  buy  an  ugly  or 
even  moderately  beautiful  thing;  but  he  was  no 
discoverer  in  art.  Here  I  will  add  to  make  myself 
clear  that  I  am  thinking  of  men  like  Frances  Hor- 
ner's father,  old  Mr.  Graham,*  who  discovered  and 
promoted  Burne- Jones  and  Frederick  Walker;  or 
Lord  Battersea,  who  was  the  first  to  patronise  Cecil 
Lawson;  or  my  sister,  Lucy  Graham  Smith,  who 
was  a  fine  judge  of  every  picture  and  recognised 
and  appreciated  all  schools  of  painting.  My  fath- 
er's judgment  was  warped  by  constantly  compar- 
ing his  own  things  with  other  people's. 

"The  pride  of  possession  and  proprietorship  is  a 
common  and  a  human  one,  but  the  real  artist  makes 
everything  he  admires  his  own:  no  one  can  rob  him 
of  this;  he  sees  value  in  unsigned  pictures  and 
promise  in  unfinished  ones;  he  not  only  discovers 

•Lady  Horner,  of  Mellf,  Frome. 

[24] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

and  interpretSy  but  almost  creates  beauty  by  the 
fire  of  his  criticisms  and  the  inwardness  of  his  pre- 
ception.  Papa  was  too  self-centred  for  this ;  a  large 
side  of  art  was  hidden  from  him ;  anything  mysteri- 
ous, suggestive^  archaic,  whether  Italian,  Spanish  or 
Dutch,  frankly  bored  him.  His  feet  were  planted 
firmly  on  a  very  healthy  earth;  he  liked  art  to  be  a 
copy  of  nature,  not  of  art.  The  modern  Burne- 
Jones  and  Morris  school,  with  what  he  considered 
its  artificiality  and  affectations,  he  could  not  endure. 
He  did  not  realise  that  it  originated  in  a  reaction 
from  early-  and  mid-Victorianism.  He  lost  sight 
of  much  that  is  beautiful  in  colour  and  fancy  and 
all  the  drawing  and  refinement  of  this  school,  by  his 
violent  prejudices.  His  opinions  were  obsessions. 
Where  he  was  original  was  not  so  much  in  his  pic- 
tures but  in  the  mezzotints,  silver,  china  and  oh  jets 
d'art  which  he  had  collected  for  many  years. 

"Whatever  he  chose,  whether  it  was  a  little  owl, 
*a  dog,  a  nigger,  a  bust,  a  Cupid  in  gold,  bronze, 
china  or  enamel,  it  had  to  have  some  human  mean- 
ing, some  recognisable  expression  which  made  it 
lovable  and  famiUar  to  him.  He  did  not  care  for 
the  fantastic,  the  tortured  or  the  ecclesiastical; 
saints,  virgins,  draperies  and  crucifixes  left  him 

[25] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

cold;  but  an  old  English  chest,  a  stout  little  chair 
or  a  healthy  oriental  bottle  would  appeal  to  him 
at  once. 

"No  one  enjoyed  his  own  possessions  more  naive- 
ly and  enthusiastically  than  my  father;  he  would 
often  take  a  candle  and  walk  round  the  pictures  in 
his  dressing-gown  on  his  way  to  bed,  loitering  over 
•them  with  tenderness — I  might  almost  say  emotion. 

"When  I  was  alone  with  him,  tucked  up  reading 
on  a  sofa,  he  would  send  me  upstairs  to  look  at  the 
Sir  Joshuas:  Lady  Gertrude  Fitz-Patrick,  Lady 
Crosbie  or  Miss  Ridge. 

"  *She  is  quite  beautiful  to-night,'  he  would  say. 
'Just  run  up  to  the  drawing-room,  Margot,  and 
have  a  look  at  her.' 

"It  was  not  only  his  collections  that  he  was  proud 
of,  but  he  was  proud  of  his  children;  we  could  all 
do  things  better  than  any  one  else!  Posie  could 
sing,  Lucy  could  draw,  Laura  could  play,  I  could 
ride,  etc.;  our  praises  were  stuffed  down  new- 
comers' throats  till  every  one  felt  uncomfortable. 
I  have  no  want  of  love  to  add  to  my  grief  at  his 
death,  but  I  much  regret  my  impatience  and  lack 
of  grace  with  him. 

"He  sometimes  introduced  me  with  emotional 
[26] 


k 


^^.^-^^ 


8IB  CHAHLE8  TENNANT  OF  GLEN:  FATHER  OF 
MABGOT   A8QUITH 


OLKKt  HOME  OF  THE  TENNANTS  AMOMO  THE  SCOTTUR 
MOOKS,  WHEBE  MABGOt  WAS  BOBN 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

pride  to  the  same  man  or  woman  two  or  three  times 
in  one  evening: 

"  *This  is  my  little  girl — ^very  clever,  etc.,  etc. 
Colonel  Kingscote  says  she  goes  harder  across 
country  than  any  one,  etc.,  etc.* 

"This  exasperated  me.  Turning  to  my  mother 
in  the  thick  of  the  guests  that  had  gathered  in  our 
house  one  evening  to  hear  a  professional  singer,  he 
said  at  the  top  of  his  voice  while  the  lady  was  being 
conducted  to  the  piano : 

"  *Don't  bother,  my  dear,  I  think  every  one 
would  prefer  to  hear  Posie  sing.' 

**I  well  remember  Laura  and  myself  being  ad- 
monished by  him  on  our  returning  from  a  party  at 
the  Cyril  Flowers'  in  the  year  1883,  where  we  had 
been  considerably  run  by  dear  Papa  and  twice  in- 
troduced to  Lord  Granville.  We  showed  such  ir- 
ritability going  home  in  the  brougham  that  my 
father  said: 

"  'It's  no  pleasure  taking  you  girls  out.' 

"This  was  the  only  time  I  ever  heard  him  cross 
with  me. 

"He  always  told  us  not  to  frown  and  to  speak 
clearly,  just  as  my  mother  scolded  us  for  not  hold- 
ing ourselves  up.    I  can  never  remember  seeing  him 

[27] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

indifferent,  slack  or  idle  in  his  life.  He  was  as 
violent  when  he  was  dying  as  when  he  was  living 
and  quite  without  self-pity. 

"He  hated  presents,  but  he  liked  praise  and  was 
easily  flattered;  he  was  too  busy  even  for  much  of 
that,  but  he  could  stand  more  than  most  of  us.  If 
it  is  a  little  simple,  it  is  also  rather  generous  to  be- 
lieve in  the  nicest  things  people  can  say  to  you ;  and 
I  think  I  would  rather  accept  too  much  than  re- 
pudiate and  refuse:  it  is  warmer  and  more  enrich- 
ing. 

"My  father  had  not  the  smallest  conceit  or  smug- 
ness, but  he  had  a  little  child-like  vanity.  You 
could  not  spoil  him  nor  improve  him;  he  remained 
egotistical,  sound,  sunny  and  unreasonable ;  violent- 
ly impatient,  not  at  all  self-indulgent — despising 
the  very  idea  of  a  valet  or  a  secretary — but  abso- 
lutely self-willed;  what  he  intended  to  do,  say  or 
buy,  he  would  do,  say  or  buy  at  once, 

"He  was  fond  of  a  few  people — Mark  Napier,* 
Ribblesdale,  Lord  Haldane,  Mr.  Heseltine,  Lord 
Rosebery  and  Arthur  Balfour — and  felt  friendly 
to  everybody,  but  he  did  not  love  many  people. 
When  we  were  girls  he  told  us  we  ought  to  make 

•TTie  Hon.  Mark  Napier,  of  Ettrick. 

[28] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

worldly  marriages,  but  in  the  end  he  let  us  choose 
the  men  we  loved  and  gave  us  the  material  help  in 
money  which  enabled  us  to  marry  them.  I  find 
exactly  the  opposite  plan  adopted  by  most  parents : 
they  sacrifice  their  children  to  loveless  marriages  as 
long  as  they  know  there  is  enough  money  for  no  de- 
mand ever  to  be  made  upon  themselves. 

"I  think  I  understood  my  father  better  than  the 
others  did.  I  guessed  his  mood  in  a  moment  and  in 
consequence  could  push  further  and  say  more  to 
him  when  he  was  in  a  good  humour.  I  lived  with 
him,  my  mother  and  Eddy  alone  for  nine  years 
(after  my  sister  Laura  married)  and  had  a  closer 
personal  experience  of  him.  He  liked  my  adven- 
turous nature.  Ribblesdale's  *  courtesy  and  sweet- 
ness delighted  him  and  they  were  genuinely  fond  of 
each  other.    He  said  once  to  me  of  him : 

"  *Tommy  is  one  of  the  few  people  in  the  world 
that  have  shown  me  gratitude.' " 

I  cannot  pass  my  brother-in-law's  name  here  in 
my  diary  without  some  reference  to  the  effect  which 
he  produced  on  us  when  he  first  came  to  Glen. 

He  was  the  finest-looking  man  that  I  ever  saw, 

•Lord  Ribblesdale,  of  Gisburne. 

[29] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

except  old  Lord  Wemyss,*  the  late  Lord  Pem- 
broke, Mr.  Wilfrid  Blunt  and  Lord  D'Abernon. 
He  had  been  introduced  to  my  sister  Charty  at  a 
ball  in  London,  when  he  was  twenty-one  and  she 
eighteen.  A  brother-officer  of  his  in  the  Rifle  Bri- 
gade, seeing  them  waltzing  together,  asked  him  if 
she  was  his  sister,  to  which  he  answered: 

"No,  thank  Godl" 

I  was  twelve  when  he  first  came  to  Glen  as 
Thomas  Lister:  his  fine  manners,  perfect  sense  of 
humour  and  picturesque  appearance  captivated 
every  one;  and,  whether  you  agreed  with  him  or 
not,  he  had  a  perfectly  original  point  of  view  and 
was  always  interested  and  suggestive.  He  never 
misunderstood  but  thoroughly  appreciated  my 
father.  .  .  . 

Continuing  from  my  diary:     ' 

"My  papa  was  a  character-part;  and  some  people 
never  understood  character-parts. 

"None  of  his  children  are  really  like  him;  yet 
there  are  resemblances  which  are  interesting  and 
worth  noting. 

"Charty  on  the  whole  resembles  him  most.    She 

•  The  Earl  of  Wemyss  and  March,  father  of  the  present  Earl. 

[80] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

has  his  transparent  simplicity,  candour,  courage 
and  want  of  self-control ;  but  she  is  the  least  selfish 
woman  I  know  and  the  least  self-centred.  She  is 
also  more  intolerant  and  merciless  in  her  criticisms 
of  other  people,  and  has  a  finer  sense  of  humour. 
Papa  loved  things  of  good  report  and  never  be- 
lieved evil  of  any  one.  He  had  a  rooted  objection 
to  talking  lightly  of  other  people's  lives ;  he  was  not 
exactly  reverent,  but  a  feeling  of  kindly  decent 
citizenship  prevented  him  from  thinking  or  speak- 
ing slightingly  of  other  people. 

"Lucy  has  Papa's  artistic  and  generous  side,  but 
none  of  his  self-confidence  or  decisiveness;  all  his 
physical  courage,  but  none  of  his  ambition. 

"Eddy  has  his  figure  and  deportment,  his  sense 
of  justice  and  emotional  tenderness,  but  none  of  his 
vitality,  impulse  or  hope.  Jack  has  his  ambition 
and  push,  keenness  and  self-confidence;  but  he  is 
not  so  good-humoured  in  a  losing  game.  Frank  has 
more  of  his  straight  tongue  and  appreciation  of 
beautiful  things,  but  none  of  his  brains. 

"I  think  I  had  more  of  Papa's  moral  indignation 
and  daring  than  the  others;  and  physically  there 
were  great  resemblances  between  us:  otherwise  I 
do  not  think  I  am  like  him.    I  have  his  carriage, 

[81] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

balance  and  activity — ^being  able  to  dance,  skip  and 
walk  on  a  rope — and  I  have  inherited  his  hair  and 
sleeplessness,  nerves  and  impatience;  but  intellect- 
ually we  look  at  things  from  an  entirely  different 
point  of  view.  I  am  more  passionate,  more  spirit- 
ually perplexed  and  less  self-satisfied.  I  have  none 
of  his  powers  of  throwing  things  off.  I  should  like 
to  think  I  have  a  little  of  his  generosity,  humanity 
and  kindly  toleration,  some  of  his  f  undameiital  up- 
rightness and  integrity,  but  when  everything  has 
been  said  he  will  remain  a  unique  man  in  people's 
memory." 
•  ••••••• 

Writing  now,  fourteen  years  later,  I  do  not  think 
that  I  can  add  much  to  this. 

Although  he  was  a  business  man,  he  had  a  wide 
understanding  and  considerable  elasticity. 

In  connection  with  business  men,  the  staggering 
figures  published  in  the  official  White  Book  of 
November  last  year  showed  that  the  result  of  in- 
cluding them  in  the  Government  has  been  so  re- 
markable that  my  memoir  would  be  incomplete 
if  I  did  not  allude  to  them.  My  father  and  grand- 
father were  brought  up  among  City  people  and  I 
am  proud  of  it;  but  it  is  folly  to  suppose  that  start- 
[82] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

ing  and  developing  a  great  business  is  the  same  as 
initiating  and  conducting  a  great  policy,  or  run- 
ning a  big  Government  Department. 

It  has  been  and  will  remain  a  puzzle  over  which 
intellectual  men  are  perpetually  if  not  permanently 
groping: 

"How  comes  it  that  Mr.  Smith  or  Mr.  Brown 
made  such  a  vast  fortune?" 

The  answer  is  not  easy.  Making  money  requires 
flair ^  instinct,  insight  or  whatever  you  like  to  call  it, 
but  the  qualities  that  go  to  make  a  business  man 
are  grotesquely  unlike  those  which  make  a  states- 
man; and,  when  you  have  pretensions  to  both,  the 
result  is  the  present  comedy  and  confusion. 

I  write  as  the  daughter  of  a  business  man  and 
the  wife  of  a  politician  and  I  know  what  I  am  talk- 
ing about,  but,  in  case  Mr.  Bonar  Law — a  pathetic 
believer  in  the  "business  man" — should  honour  me 
by  reading  these  pages  and  still  cling  to  his  illusions 
on  the  subject,  I  refer  him  to  the  figures  published 
in  the  Government  White  Book  of  1919. 

Intellectual  men  seldom  make  fortunes  and  busi- 
ness men  are  seldom  intellectual. 

My  father  was  educated  in  Liverpool  and 
worked  in  a  night  school;  he  was  a  good  linguist, 

[33] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

which  he  would  never  have  been  had  he  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  be  educated  in  any  of  our  great  public 
schools. 

I  remember  some  one  telling  me  how  my  grand- 
father had  said  that  he  could  not  understand  any 
man  of  sense  bringing  his  son  up  as  a  gentleman. 
In  those  days  as  in  these,  gentlemen  were  found 
and  not  made,  but  the  expression  "bringing  a  man 
up  as  a  gentleman"  meant  bringing  him  up  to  be 
idle. 

When  my  father  gambled  in  the  City,  he  took 
risks  with  his  own  rather  than  other  people's  money. 
I  heard  him  say  to  a  South  African  millionaire: 

"You  did  not  make  your  money  out  of  mines,  but 
out  of  mugs  like  me,  my  dear  fellow !" 

A  whole  chapter  might  be  devoted  to  stories 
about  his  adventures  in  speculation,  but  I  will  give 
only  one.  As  a  young  man  he  was  put  by  my 
grandfather  into  a  firm  in  Liverpool  and  made 
£30,000  on  the  French  Bourse  before  he  was  twen- 
ty-four. On  hearing  of  this,  his  father  wrote  and 
apologised  to  the  head  of  the  firm,  saying  he  was 
willing  to  withdraw  his  son  Charles  if  he  had  in 
any  way  shocked  them  by  risking  a  loss  which  he 
could  never  have  paid.  The  answer  was  a  request 
[84] 


\ 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

that  the  said  "son  Charles"  should  become  a  part- 
ner in  the  firm. 

Born  a  little  quicker,  more  punctual  and  more 
alive  than  other  people,  he  suffered  fools  not  at  all. 
He  could  not  modify  himself  in  any  way;  he  was 
the  same  man  in  his  nursery,  his  school  and  his 
office,  the  same  man  in  church,  club,  city  or  suburbs. 
•         •••••• 

My  mother*  was  more  unlike  my  father  than  can 
easily  be  imagined.  She  was  as  timid, as  he  was 
bold,  as  controlled  as  he  was  spontaneous  and  as 
refined,  courteous  and  unassuming  as  he  was  vi- 
brant, sheer  and  adventurous. 

Fond  as  we  were  of  each  other  and  intimate  over 
all  my  love-affairs,  my  mother  never  really  under- 
stood me;  my  vitality,  independent  happiness  and 
physical  energies  filled  her  with  fatigue.  She  never 
enjoyed  her  prosperity  and  suffered  from  all  the 

*My  mother,  Emma  Winsloe,  came  of  quite  a  different  class  from 
my  father.  His  ancestor  of  earliest  memory  was  factor  to  Lord 
Bute,  whose  ploughman  was  Robert  Burns,  the  poet.  His  grand- 
son was  my  grandfather  Tennant  of  St.  Rollox.  My  mother's  fam- 
ily were  of  gentle  blood.  Richard  Winsloe  (6.  1770,  d.  1842)  was 
rector  of  Minster  Forrabury  in  Cornwall  and  of  Ruishton,  near 
Taunton.  He  married  Catherine  Walter,  daughter  of  the  founder 
of  the  Times.  Their  son,  Richard  Winsloe,  was  sent  to  Oxford  to 
study  for  the  Church.  He  ran  away  with  Charlotte  Monkton,  aged 
17.  They  were  caught  at  Evesham  and  brought  back  to  be  married 
next  day  at  Taunton,  where  Admiral  Monkton  was  living.  They 
had  two  children:  Enmia,  our  mother,  and  Richard,  my  uncle. 

[35] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

apprehension,  fussiness  and  love  of  economy  that 
should  by  rights  belong  to  the  poor,  but  by  a  curious 
perversion  almost  always  blight  the  rich. 

Her  preachings  on  economy  were  a  constant 
source  of  amusement  to  my  father.  I  made  up  my 
mind  at  an  early  age,  after  listening  to  his  chaff, 
that  money  was  the  most  overrated  of  all  anxieties ; 
and  not  only  has  nothing  occurred  in  my  long  ex- 
perience to  make  me  alter  this  opinion  but  every- 
thing has  tended  to  reinforce  it. 

In  discussing  matrimony  my  father  would  say: 

"I'm  sure  I  hope,  girls,  you'll  not  marry  penni- 
less men;  men  should  not  marry  at  all  imless  they 
can  keep  their  wives,'  etc. 

To  this  my  mother  would  retort: 

"Do  not  listen  to  your  father,  children!  Marry- 
ing for  money  has  never  yet  made  any  one  happy; 
it  is  not  blessed." 

Mamma  had  no  illusions  about  her  children  nor 
about  anything  else ;  her  mild  criticisms  of  the  fam- 
ily balanced  my  father's  obsessions.  When 
Charty's  looks  were  praised,  she  would  answer  with 
a  fine  smile: 

"Tant  soit  peu  mouton!" 

She  thought  us  all  very  plain,  how  plain  I  only 
[36] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

discovered  by  overhearing  the  following  conversa- 
tion. 

I  was  seventeen  and,  a  few  days  after  my  return 
from  Dresden,  I  was  writing  behind  the  drawing- 
room  screen  in  London,  when  an  elderly  Scotch 
lady  came  to  see  my  mother;  she  was  shown  into 
the  room  by  the  footman  and  after  shaking  hands 
said: 

"What  a  handsome  house  this  is.  .  .  ." 

My  Mother  {irrelevantly) :  "I  always  think 
your  place  is  so  nice.  Did  your  garden  do  well  this 
year?" 

Elderly  Lady:  "Oh,  I'm  not  a  gardener  and  we 
spend  very  little  time  at  Auchnagarroch ;  I  took 
Alison  to  the  Hydro  at  CriefF  for  a  change.  She's 
just  a  growing  girl,  you  know,  and  not  at  all  clever 
like  yours." 

My  Mother:  "My  girls  never  grow!  I  am  sure 
I  wish  they  would!" 

Elderly  Lady:  "But  they  are  so  pretty!  My 
Marion  has  a  homely  face!" 

My  Mother:  "How  old  is  she?" 

Elderly  Lady:  "Sixteen." 

My  Mother:  "Udge  ingrat!  I  would  not 
trouble  myself,  if  I  were  you,  about  her  looks ;  with 

[37] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

young  people  one  never  can  tell;  Margot,  for  in- 
stance (with  a  resigned  sigh),  a  few  years  ago 
promised  to  be  so  pretty;  and  just  look  at  her  now!" 

When  some  one  suggested  that  we  should  be 
painted  it  was  almost  more  than  my  mother  could 
bear.  The  poorness  of  the  subject  and  the  richness 
of  the  price  shocked  her  profoundly.  Luckily  my 
father — who  had  begun  to  buy  fine  pictures — en- 
tirely agreed  with  her,  though  not  for  the  same 
reasons : 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know  where  I  could  hang  the 
girls,  even  if  I  were  fool  enough  to  have  them 
painted!"  he  would  say. 

I  cannot  ever  remember  kissing  my  mother  with- 
out her  tapping  me  on  the  back  and  saying,  "Hold 
yourself  up !"  or  kissing  my  father  without  his  say- 
ing, "Don't  frown!"  And  I  shall  never  cease  be- 
ing grateful  for  this,  as  a  Vheure  qu'il  est  I  have 
not  a  line  in  my  forehead  and  my  figure  has  not 
changed  since  my  marriage. 

My  mother's  indifference  to — I  might  almost 
say  suspicion  of — other  people  always  amused  me: 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know  why  they  should  come 
here!  unless  it  is  to  see  the  garden!"  Or,  "I  cannot 
help  wondering  what  was  at  the  back  of  her  mind.'* 
[88] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

When  I  sugge$ted  that  perhaps  the  lady  she 
referred  to  had  no  mind,  my  mother  would  say,  "I 
don't  like  people  with  arriere-pensees^^-  and  ended 
most  of  her  criticisms  by  saying,  "It  looks  to  me 
as  if  she  had  a  poor  circulation." 

My  mother  had  an  excellent  sense  of  humour. 
Doll  Liddell*  said:  "Lucy  has  a  touch  of  mild 
genius."    And  this  is  exactly  what  my  mother  had. 

People  thought  her  a  calm,  serene  person,  satis- 
fied with  pinching  green  flies  off  plants  and  in- 
capable of  deep  feeling,  but  my  mother's  heart  had 
been  broken  by  the  death  of  her  first  four  children, 
and  she  dreaded  emotion.  Any  attempt  on  my 
part  to  discuss  old  days  or  her  own  sensations 
was  resolutely  discouraged.  There  was  a  lot  of 
fun  and  affection  but  a  tepid  intimacy  between  us, 
except  about  my  flirtations ;  and  over  these  we  saw 
eye  to  eye. 

My  mother,  who  had  been  a  great  flirt  herself, 
thoroughly  enjoyed  all  love-affairs  and  was  abso- 
lutely unshockable.  Little  words  of  wisdom  would 
drop  from  her  mouth : 

My  Mother:  "Men  don't  like  being  run 
after.  .  .  ." 

*The  late  A.  G.  C.  LiddelL 

[89] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Margot:  "Oh,  don't  you  believe  it,  mamma!'* 

My  Mother:  "You  can  do  what  you  like  in  life 
if  you  can  hold  your  tongue,  but  the  world  is  re- 
lentless to  people  who  are  found  out." 

She  told  my  father  that  if  he  interfered  with  my 
love-affairs  I  should  very  likely  marry  a  groom. 

She  did  me  a  good  turn  here,  for,  though  I  would 
not  have  married  a  groom,  I  might  have  married 
the  wrong  man  and,  in  any  case,  interference  would 
have  been  cramping  to  me. 

I  have  copied  out  of  my  diary  what  I  wrote  about 
my  mother  when  she  died. 

"January  21st,  1895. 

"Mamma  is  dead.  She  died  this  morning  and 
Glen  isn't  my  home  any  more :  I  feel  as  if  I  should 
be  'received'  here  in  future,  instead  of  finding  my 
own  darling,  tender  little  mother,  who  wanted  ar- 
ranging for  and  caring  for  and  to  whom  my  gossipy 
trivialities  were  precious  and  all  my  love-stories  a 
trust.  How  I  wish  I  could  say  sincerely  that  I  had 
understood  her  nature  and  sympathised  with  her 
and  never  felt  hurt  by  anything  she  could  say  and 
had  eagerly  shown  my  love  and  sought  hers.  .  .  . 
Lucky  Lucy!  She  can  say  this,  but  I  do  not  think 
that  I  can. 
[40] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"Mamma's  life  and  death  have  taught  me  several 
things.  Her  sincerity  and  absence  of  vanity  and 
worldliness  were  her  really  striking  qualities.  Her 
power  of  suffering  passively,  without  letting  any 
one  into  her  secret,  was  carried  to  a  fault.  We  who 
longed  to  share  some  part,  however  small,  of  the 
burden  of  her  emotion  were  not  allowed  to  do  so. 
This  reserve  to  the  last  hour  of  her  life  remained 
her  inexorable  rule  and  habit.  It  arose  from  a  wish 
to  spare  other  people  and  fear  of  herself  and  her 
own  feelings.  To  spare  others  was  her  ideal.  An- 
other characteristic  was  her  pity  for  the  obscure,  the 
dull  and  the  poor.  The  postman  in  winter  ought 
to  have  fur-lined  gloves;  and  we  must  send  our 
Christmas  letters  and  parcels  before  or  after  the 
busy  days.  Lord  Napier's*  coachman  had  never 
seen  a  comet;  she  would  write  and  tell  him  what 
day  it  was  prophesied.  The  lame  girl  at  the  lodge 
must  be  picked  up  in  the  brougham  and  taken  for 
a  drive,  etc.  .  .  . 

"She  despised  any  one  who  was  afraid  of  infec- 
tion and  was  singularly  ignorant  on  questions  of 
health ;  she  knew  little  or  nothing  of  medicine  and 
never  believed  in  doctors;  she  made^an  exception  of 

•Lord  Napier  and  Ettrick,  father  of  Mark  Napier. 

[41]        - 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Sir  James  Simpson,  who  was  her  friend.  She  told 
me  that  he  had  said  there  was  a  great  deal  of  non- 
sense talked  about  health  and  diet: 

"  *If  the  fire  is  low,  it  does  not  matter  whether 
you  stir  it  with  the  poker  or  the  tongs.' 

"She  believed  firmly  in  cold  water  and  thought 
that  most  illnesses  came  from  ^checked  perspira- 
tion.' 

"She  loved  happy  people — people  with  courage 
and  go  and  what  she  called  'nature' — and  said  many 
good  things.  Of  Mark  Napier:  *He  had  so  much 
nature,  I  am  sure  he  had  a  Neapolitan  wet-nurse' 
(here  she  was  right).  Of  Charty:  *She  has  so 
much  social  courage.'  Of  Aunt  Marion*:  *She  is 
unfortunately  inferior.'  Of  Lucy's  early  friends: 
Xucy's  trumpery  girls.' 

"Mamma  was  not  at  all  spiritual,  nor  had  she 
much  intellectual  imagination,  but  she  believed 
firmly  in  God  and  was  profoundly  sorry  for  those 
who  did  not.  She  was  full  of  admiration  for  re- 
ligious people.  Laura's  prayer  against  high  spirits 
she  thought  so  wonderful  that  she  kept  it  in  a  book 
near  her  bed. 

"She  told  me  she  had  never  had  enough  circula- 

•My   father's  sister,  Mrs.   WaUace. 

[42] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

tion  to  have  good  spirits  herself  and  that  her  old 
nurse  often  said : 

"  *No  one  should  ever  be  surprised  at  anything 
they  feel/ 

"My  mamma  came  of  an  unintellectual  family 
and  belonged  to  a  generation  in  which  it  was  not 
the  fashion  to  read.  She  had  lived  in  a  small  milieu 
most  of  her  life,  without  the  opportunity  of  meeting 
distinguished  people.  She  had  great  powers  of  ob- 
servation and  a  certain  delicate  acuteness  of  ex- 
pression which  identified  all  she  said  with  herself. 
She  was  fine-mouche  and  full  of  tender  humour,  a 
woman  of  the  world,  but  entirely  bereft  of  worldli- 
ness. 

"Her  twelve  children,  who  took  up  all  her  time, 
accounted  for  some  of  her  a  quoi  bon  attitude  to- 
wards life,  but  she  had  little  or  no  concentration  and 
a  feminine  mind  both  in  its  purity  and  inconse- 
quence. 

"My  mother  hardly  had  one  intimate  friend  and 
never  allowed  any  one  to  feel  necessary  to  her. 
Most  people  thought  her  gentle  to  docility  and  full 
of  quiet  composure.  So  much  is  this  the  general 
impression  that,  out  of  nearly  a  hundred  letters 
which  I  received,  there  is  not  one  that  does  not 

[43] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

allude  to  her  restful  nature.  As  a  matter  of  fact. 
Mamma  was  one  of  the  most  restless  creatures  that 
ever  lived.  She  moved  from  room  to  room,  table 
to  table,  and  topic  to  topic,  not,  it  is  true,  with  haste 
or  fretfulness,  but  with  no  concentration  of  either 
thought  or  purpose;  and  I  never  saw  her  put  up 
her  feet  in  my  life. 

"Her  want  of  confidence  in  herself  and  of  grip 
upon  life  prevented  her  from  having  the  influence 
which  her  experience  of  the  world  and  real  insight 
might  have  given  her;  and  her  want  of  expansion 
prevented  her  own  generation  and  discouraged  ours 
from  approaching  her  closely. 

"Few  women  have  speculative  minds  nor  can 
they  deliberate:  they  have  instincts,  quick  appre- 
hensions and  powers  of  observation;  but  they  are 
seldom  imaginative  and  neither  their  logic  nor  their 
reason  are  their  strong  points.  Mamma  was  in  all 
these  ways  like  the  rest  of  her  sex. 

"She  had  much  affection  for,  but  hardly  any 
pride  in  her  children.  Laura's  genius  was  a  phrase 
to  her;  and  any  praise  of  Charty's  looks  or  Lucy's 
successes  she  took  as  mere  courtesy  on  the  part  of 
the  speaker.  I  can  never  remember  her  praising 
me,  except  to  say  that  I  had  social  courage,  nor  did 
[44] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

she  ever  encourage  me  to  draw,  write  or  play  the 
piano. 

"She  marked  in  a  French  translation  of  The 
Imitation  of  Christ  which  Lucy  gave  her: 

'"Certes  au  jour  du  jugement  on  ne  nous  de- 
mandera  point  ce  que  nous  avons  lu,  mais  ce  que 
nou^  avons  fait;  ni  si  nous  avons  bien  parte  mais  si 
nous  avons  bien  vecu/ 

"She  was  the  least  self-centred  and  self -scanned 
of  human  beings,  unworldly  and  uncomplaining. 
As  Doll  Liddell  says  in  his  admirable  letter  to  me, 
'She  was  often  wise  and  always  gracious.'  " 


[45] 


CHAPTER  II 

GLEN  AMONG  THE  MOORS — MARGOT's  ADVENTURE 
WITH  A  TRAMP THE  SHEPHERD  BOY — MEM- 
ORIES   AND    ESCAPADES — LAURA    AND    MARGOT; 

PROPOSALS  OF  MARRIAGE NEW  MEN  FRIENDS 

LAURA  ENGAGED ;  PROPOSAL  IN  THE  DUSK — MAR- 
GOT's   accident   IN    HUNTING   FIELD — LAURA's 

premonition   of  death   in   child-birth — 
Laura's  will 

ly /FY  home,  Glen,  is  on  the  border  of  Peebles- 
-i-^M.   shire  and  Selkirkshire,  sixteen  miles  from 
Abbotsford  and  thirty  from  Edinburgh.     It  was 
designed  on  the  lines  of  Glamis  and  Castle  Eraser, 
in  what  is  called  Scottish  baronial  style.    I  well  re- 
member the  first  shock  I  had  when  some  one  said : 
"I  hate  turrets  and  tin  men  on  the  top  of  theml" 
It  unsettled  me  for  days.    I  had  never  imagined 
that  anything  could  be  more  beautiful  than  Glen. 
The  classical  style  of  Whittingehame — and  other 
fine  places  of  the  sort — appeared  to  me  better 
suited  for  municipal  buildings ;  the  beams  and  flint 
in  Cheshire  reminded  me  of  EarFs  Court;  and  such 
[46] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

castles  as  I  had  seen  looked  like  the  pictures  of  the 
Rhine  on  my  blotting-book.  I  was  quite  ignorant 
and  "Scottish  baronial"  thrilled  me. 

What  made  Glen  really  unique  was  not  its  archi- 
tecture but  its  situation.  The  road  by  which  you 
approached  it  was  a  cul-de-sac  and  led  to  nothing 
but  moors.  This — and  the  fact  of  its  being  ten 
miles  from  a  railway  station — gave  it  security  in 
its  wildness.  Great  stretches  of  heather  swept 
down  to  the  garden  walls;  and,  however  many 
heights  you  climbed,  moor  upon  moor  rose  in  front 
of  you. 

Evan  Charteris*  said  that  my  hair  was  biog- 
raphy: as  it  is  my  only  claim  to  beauty,  I  would 
like  to  think  that  this  is  true,  but  the  hills  at  Glen 
are  my  real  biography. 

Nature  inoculates  its  lovers  from  its  own  culture ; 
sea,  downs  and  moors  produce  a  different  type  of 
person.  Shepherds,  fishermen  and  poachers  are  a 
little  like  what  they  contemplate  and,  were  it  pos- 
sible to  ask  the  towns  to  tell  us  whom  they  find  most 
untamable,  I  have  not  a  doubt  that  they  would  say, 
those  who  are  born  on  the  moors. 

I  married  late — at  the  age  of  thirty — and  spent 

•The  Hon.  Evan  Charteris. 

[47] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

all  my  early  life  at  Glen.  I  was  a  child  of  the 
heather  and  quite  untamable.  After  my  sister 
Laura  Lyttelton  died,  my  brother  Eddy  and  I  lived 
alone  with  my  parents  for  nine  years  at  Glen. 

When  he  was  abroad  shooting  big  game,  I  spent 
long  days  out  of  doors,  seldom  coming  in  for  lunch. 
Both  my  pony  and  my  hack  were  saddled  from  7 
a.m.,  ready  for  me  to  ride,  every  day  of  my  life. 
I  wore  the  shortest  of  tweed  skirts,  knickerbockers 
of  the  same  stuff,  top-boots,  a  covert-coat  and  a 
coloured  scarf  round  my  head.  I  was  equipped  with 
a  book,  pencils,  cigarettes  and  food.  Every''  shep- 
herd and  poacher  knew  me ;  and  I  have  often  shared 
my  "piece"  with  them,  sitting  in  the  heather  near 
the  red  burns,  or  sheltered  from  rain  in  the  cuts  and 
quarries  of  the  open  road. 

After  my  first  great  sorrow — ^the  death  of  my 
sister  Laura — I  was  suffocated  in  the  house  and 
felt  I  had  to  be  out  of  doors  from  morning  till 
night. 

One  day  I  saw  an  old  shepherd  called  Gowan- 
lock  coming  up  to  me,  holding  my  pony  by  the  rein. 
I  had  never  noticed  that  it  had  strayed  away  and, 
after  thanking  him,  I  observed  him  looking  at  me 
quietly — he  knew  something  of  the  rage  and  an- 
[48] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

guish  that  Laura's  death  had  brought  into  my  heart 
— and  putting  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  he  said: 

"My  child,  there's  no  contending.  .  .  .  Ay — 
ay" — shaking  his  beautiful  old  head — "that  is  so, 
there's  no  contending.  ..." 

Another  day,  when  it  came  on  to  rain,  I  saw  a 
tramp  crouching  under  the  dyke,  holding  an  um- 
brella over  his  head  and  eating  his  lunch.  I  went 
and  sat  down  beside  him  and  we  fell  into  desultory 
conversation.  He  had  a  grand,  wild  face  and  I 
felt  some  curiosity  about  him;  but  he  was  taciturn 
and  all  he  told  me  was  that  he  was  walking  to  the 
Gordon  Arms,  on  his  way  to  St.  Mary's  Loch.  I 
asked  him  every  sort  of  question — as  to  where  he 
had  come  from,  where  he  was  going  to  and  what  he 
wanted  to  do — but  he  refused  to  gratify  my  curios- 
ity, so  I  gave  him  one  of  my  cigarettes  and  a  light 
and  we  sat  peacefully  smoking  together  in  silence. 
When  the  rain  cleared,  I  turned  to  him  and  said : 

"You  seem  to  walk  all  day  and  go  nowhere;  when 
you  wake  up  in  the  morning,  how  do  you  shape  your 
course?" 

To  which  he  answered: 

"I  always  turn  my  back  to  the  wind." 

Border  people  are  more  intelligent  than  those 

[49] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

born  in  the  South ;  and  the  people  of  my  birthplace 
are  a  hundred  years  in  advance  of  the  Southern 
English  even  now. 

When  I  was  fourteen,  I  met  a  shepherd-boy 
reading  a  French  book.  It  was  called  Le  Secret  de 
Delphine.  I  asked  him  how  he  came  to  know 
French  and  he  told  me  it  was  the  extra  subject  he 
had  been  allowed  to  choose  for  studying  in  his  holi- 
days; he  walked  eighteen  miles  a  day  to  school — 
nine  there  and  nine  back — ^taking  his  chance  of  a 
lift  from  any  passing  vehicle.  I  begged  him  to  read 
out  loud  to  me,  but  he  was  shy  of  his  accent  and 
would  not  do  it.  The  Lowland  Scotch  were  a  won- 
derful people  in  my  day. 

•  •••••• 

I  remember  nothing  unhappy  in  my  glorious 
youth  except  the  violence  of  our  family  quarrels. 
Reckless  waves  of  high  and  low  spirits,  added  to 
quick  tempers,  obliged  my  mother  to  separate  us 
for  some  time  and  forbid  us  to  sleep  in  the  same 
bedroom.  We  raged  and  ragged  till  the  small 
hours  of  the  morning,  which  kept  us  thin  and  the 
household  awake. 

My  mother  told  me  two  stories  of  myself  as  a 
little  child: 
[50] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"When  you  were  sent  for  to  come  downstairs, 
Margot,  the  nurse  opened  the  door  and  you  walked 
in — ^generally  alone — saying,  ^Here's  me!  .  .  /" 

This  rather  sanguine  opening  does  not  seem  to 
have  been  sufficiently  checked.  She  went  on  to 
say: 

"I  was  dreadfully  afraid  you  would  be  upset  and 
ill  when  I  took  you  one  day  to  the  Deaf  and  Dumb 
Asylum  in  Glasgow,  as  you  felt  things  with  pas- 
sionate intensity.  Before  starting  I  lifted  you  on 
to  my  knee  and  said,  *You  know,  darling,  I  am  go- 
ing to  take  you  to  see  some  poor  people  who  can- 
not speak.'  At  which  you  put  your  arms  round 
my  neck  and  said,  with  consoling  emphasis,  *Z  will 
soon  make  them  speak!'  " 

The  earliest  event  I  can  remember  was  the  ar- 
rival of  the  new  baby,  my  brother  Jack,  when  I 
was  two  years  old.  Dr.  Cox  was  spoiling  my 
mother's  good-night  visit  while  I  was  being  dried 
after  my  bath.  My  pink  flannel  dressing-gown, 
with  white  buttonhole  stitching,  was  hanging  over 
the  fender ;  and  he  was  discussing  some  earnest  sub- 
ject in  a  low  tone.  He  got  up  and,  pinching  my 
chin  said: 

[51] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

"She  will  be  very  angry,  but  we  will  give  her  a 
baby  of  her  own,"  or  words  to  that  effect. 

The  next  day  a  huge  doll  obliterated  from  my 
mind  the  new  baby  which  had  arrived  that  morn- 
ing. 

We  were  left  very  much  alone  in  our  nursery, 
as  my  mother  travelled  from  pillar  to  post,  hunting 
for  health  for  her  child  Pauline.  Our  nurse,  Mrs. 
Hills — called  "Missuls"  for  short — left  us  on  my 
tenth  birthday  to  become  my  sister's  lady's-maid, 
and  this  removed  our  first  and  last  restriction. 

We  were  wild  children  and,  left  to  ourselves,  had 
the  time  of  our  lives.  I  rode  my  pony  up  the  front 
stairs  and  tried  to  teach  my  father's  high-stepping 
barouche-horses  to  jump — crashing  their  knees  into 
the  hurdles  in  the  field — and  climbed  our  incredibly 
dangerous  roof,  sitting  on  the  sweep's  ladder  by 
moonlight  in  my  nightgown.  I  had  scrambled  up 
every  tree,  walked  on  every  wall  and  knew  every 
turret  at  Glen.  I  ran  along  the  narrow  ledges  of 
the  slates  in  rubber  shoes  at  terrific  heights.  This 
alarmed  other  people  so  much  that  my  father  sent 
for  me  one  day  to  see  him  in  his  "business  room" 
and  made  me  swear  before  God  that  I  would  give 
[52] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

up  walking  on  the  roof;  and  give  it  up  I  did,  with 
many  tears. 

Laura  and  I  were  fond  of  acting  and  dressing 
up.  We  played  at  being  found  in  dangerous  and 
adventurous  circumstances  in  the  garden.  One  day 
the  boys  were  rabbit-shooting  and  we  were  acting 
with  the  doctor's  daughter.  I  had  spoilt  the  game 
by  running  round  the  kitchen-garden  wall  instead 
of  being  discovered — as  I  was  meant  to  be — in  a 
Turkish  turban,  smoking  on  the  banks  of  the  Bos- 
phorus.  Seeing  that  things  were  going  badly  and 
that  the  others  had  disappeared,  I  took  a  wild  jump 
into  the  radishes.  On  landing  I  observed  a  strange 
gentleman  coming  up  the  path.  He  looked  at  my 
torn  gingham  frock,  naked  legs,  tennis  shoes  and 
dishevelled  curls  under  an  orange  turban;  and  I 
stood  still  and  gazed  at  him. 

"This  is  a  wonderful  place,"  he  said;  to  which  I 
replied : 

"You  like  it?" 

He:  "I  would  like  to  see  the  house.  I  hear  there 
are  beautiful  things  in  it." 

Margot:  "I  think  the  drawing-rooms  are  all  shut 
up." 

He:  "How  do  you  know?     Surely  you  could 

[53] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

manage  to  get  hold  of  a  servant  or  some  one  who 
would  take  me  round.    Do  you  know  any  of  them?" 

I  asked  him  if  he  meant  the  family  or  the  ser- 
vants. 

"The  family,"  he  said. 

Margot:  "I  know  them  very  well,  but  I  don't 
know  you." 

"I  am  an  artist,"  said  the  stranger;  "my  name  is 
Peter  Graham.    Who  are  you  ?" 

"I  am  an  artist  tool"  I  said.  "My  name  is  Mar- 
got  Tennant.  I  suppose  you  thought  I  was  the 
gardener's  daughter,  did  you?" 

He  gave  a  circulating  smile,  finishing  on  my 
turban,  and  said: 

"To  tell  you  the  honest  truth,  I  had  no  idea  what 
you  were!" 

My  earliest  sorrow  was  when  I  was  stealing 
peaches  in  the  conservatory  and  my  little  dog  was 
caught  in  a  trap  set  for  rats.  He  was  badly  hurt 
before  I  could  squeeze  under  the  glass  slides  to  save 
him.  I  was  betrayed  by  my  screams  for  help  and 
caught  in  the  peach-house  by  the  gardener.  I  was 
punished  and  put  to  bed,  as  the  large  peaches  were 
to  have  been  shown  in  Edinburgh  and  I  had  eaten 
five. 

[54] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

We  had  a  dancing-class  at  the  minister's  and  an 
arithmetic-class  in  our  schoolroom.  I  was  as  good 
at  the  Manse  as  I  was  bad  at  my  sums;  and  poor 
Mr.  Menzies,  the  Traquair  schoolmaster,  had  even- 
tually to  beg  my  mother  to  withdraw  me  from  the 
class,  as  I  kept  them  all  back.  To  my  delight  I  was 
withdrawn;  and  from  that  day  to  this  I  have  never 
added  a  single  row  of  figures. 

I  showed  a  remarkable  proficiency  in  dancing 
and  could  lift  both  my  feet  to  the  level  of  my  eye- 
brows with  disconcerting  ease.  Mrs.  Wallace,  the 
minister's  wife,  was  shocked  and  said: 

"Look  at  Margot  with  her  Frenchified  airs!" 

I  pondered  often  and  long  over  this,  the  first  re- 
mark about  myself  that  I  can  ever  remember. 
Some  one  said  to  me : 

"Does  your  hair  curl  naturally?" 

To  which  I  replied: 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  will  ask." 

I  was  unaware  of  myself  and  had  not  the  slight- 
est idea  what  "curling  naturally"  meant. 

We  had  two  best  dresses:  one  made  in  London, 
which  we  only  wore  on  great  occasions;  the  other 
made  by  my  nurse,  in  which  we  went  down  to  des- 
sert.    These  dresses  gave  me  my  first  impression 

[55] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

of  civilised  life.  Just  as  the  Speaker,  before  clear- 
ing the  House,  spies  strangers,  so,  when  I  saw  my 
black  velvet  skirt  and  pink  Garibaldi  put  out  on 
the  bed,  I  knew  that  something  was  up !  The  nurs- 
ery confection  was  of  white  alpaca,  piped  with  pink, 
and  did  not  inspire  the  same  excitement  and  con- 
fidence. 

We  saw  little  of  our  mother  in  our  youth  and  I 
asked  Laura  one  day  if  she  thought  she  said  her 
prayers ;  I  would  not  have  remembered  this  had  it 
not  been  that  Laura  was  profoundly  shocked.  The 
question  was  quite  uncalled  for  and  had  no  ulterior 
motive,  but  I  never  remembered  my  mother  or  any 
one  else  talking  to  us  about  the  Bible  or  hearing 
us  our  prayers.  Nevertheless  we  were  all  deeply 
religious,  by  which  no  one  need  infer  that  we  were 
good.  There  was  one  service  a  week,  held  on  Sun- 
days, in  Traquair  Kirk,  which  every  one  went  to; 
and  the  shepherds'  dogs  kept  close  to  their  masters' 
plaids,  hung  over  the  high  box-pews,  all  the  way 
down  the  aisle.  I  have  heard  many  fine  sermons  in 
Scotland,  but  our  minister  was  not  a  good  preacher; 
and  we  were  often  dissolved  in  laughter,  sitting  in 
the  square  family  pew  in  the  gallery.  My  father 
[56] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

closed  his  eyes  tightly  all  through  the  sermon,  lean^ 
ing  his  head  on  his  hand. 

The  Scottish  Sabbath  still  held  its  own  in  my 
youth;  and  when  I  heard  that  Ribblesdale  and 
Charty  played  lawn  tennis  on  Sunday  after  they 
were  married,  I  felt  very  unhappy.  We  had  a  few 
Sabbath  amusements,  but  they  were  not  as  enter- 
taining as  those  described  in  Miss  Fowler's  book, 
in  which  the  men  who  were  heathens  went  into  one 
corner  of  the  room  and  the  women  who  were  Chris- 
tians into  the  other  and,  at  the  beating  of  a  gong, 
conversion  was  accomplished  by  a  close  embrace. 
Our  Scottish  Sabbaths  were  very  different,  and  I 
thought  them  more  than  dreary.  Although  I  love 
church  music  and  architecture  and  can  listen 
to  almost  any  sermon  at  any  time  and  even  read 
sermons  to  myself,  going  to  church  in  the  coun- 
try remains  a  sacrifice  to  me.  The  painful  custom 
in  the  Church  of  England  of  reading  indistinctly 
and  in  an  assumed  voice  has  alienated  simple 
people  in  every  parish;  and  the  average  preaching 
is  painful.  In  my  country  you  can  still  hear 
a  good  sermon.  When  staying  with  Lord  Hal- 
dane's  mother — ^the  most  beautiful,  humorous 
and  saintly  of  old  ladies — I  heard  an  excellent 

[57] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

sermon  at  Auchterarder  on  this  very  subject,  the 
dullness  of  Sundays.  The  minister  said  that,  how- 
ever brightly  the  sun  shone  on  stained  glass  win- 
dows, no  one  could  guess  what  they  were  really 
like  from  the  outside;  it  was  from  the  inside  only 
that  you  should  judge  of  them. 

Another  time  I  heard  a  man  end  his  sermon  by 
saying: 

"And  now,  my  friends,  do  your  duty  and  don't 
look  upon  the  world  with  eyes  jaundiced  by  re- 
ligion." 

My  mother  hardly  ever  mentioned  religion  to  us 
and,  when  the  subject  was  brought  up  by  other 
people,  she  confined  her  remarks  to  saying  in  a 
weary  voice  and  with  a  resigned  sigh  that  God's 
ways  were  mysterious.  She  had  suffered  many 
sorrows  and,  in  estimating  her  lack  of  tempera- 
ment, I  do  not  think  I  made  enough  allowance  for 
them.  No  true  woman  ever  gets  over  the  loss  of 
a  child;  and  her  three  eldest  had  died  before  I  was 
born. 

I  was  the  most  vital  of  the  family  and  what  the 
nurses  described  as  a  "venturesome  child."  Our 
coachman's  wife  called  me  "a  little  Turk."  Self- 
[58] 


Mils,  asquith's  mother 


LORD  RIBBI^SDALE,  WHOSE  FIRST  WIFE  WAS  CHABTT 
TENNANT.     HE   AFTERWARDS   MARRIED 
MRS.   JOHN   ASTOE    (aVA  WILLING) 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

willed,  excessively  passionate,  painfully  truthful, 
bold  as  well  as  fearless  and  always  against  conven- 
tion, I  was,  no  doubt,  extremely  difficult  to  bring 
up. 

My  mother  was  not  lucky  with  her  governesses — 
we  had  two  at  a  time,  and  of  every  nationality, 
French,  German,  Swiss,  Italian  and  Greek — ^but, 
whether  through  my  fault  or  our  governesses',  I 
never  succeeded  in  making  one  of  them  really  love 
me.  Mary  Morison,*  who  kept  a  high  school  for 
young  ladies  in  Innerleithen,  was  the  first  person 
who  influenced  me  and  my  sister  Laura.  She  is 
alive  now  and  a  woman  of  rare  intellect  and  char- 
acter. She  was  fonder  of  Laura  than  of  me,  but 
so  were  most  people. 

Here  I  would  like  to  say  something  about  my 
sister  and  Alfred  Lyttelton,  whom  she  married  in 
1885. 

A  great  deal  of  nonsense  has  been  written  and 
talked  about  Laura.  There  are  two  printed  accounts 
of  her  that  are  true:  one  has  been  written  by  the 
present  Mrs.  Alfred  Lyttelton,  in  generous  and 
tender  passages  in  the  life  of  her  husband,  and  the 

*Miss  Morison,  a  cousin  of  Mr.  William  Archer's. 

[59] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

other  by  A.  G.  C.  Liddell;  but  even  these  do  not 
quite  give  the  brilliant,  witty  Laura  of  my  heart. 
I  will  quote  what  my  dear  friend,  Doll  Liddell, 
wrote  of  her  in  his  Notes  from  the  Life  of  an  Ordi- 
nary Mortal: 

My  acquaintance  with  Miss  Tennant,  which  led 
to  a  close  intimacy  with  herself,  and  afterwards  with 
her  family,  was  an  event  of  such  importance  in  my 
life  that  I  feel  I  ought  to  attempt  some  description 
of  her.  This  is  not  an  easy  task,  as  a  more  indescrib- 
able person  never  existed,  for  no  one  could  form  a 
correct  idea  of  what  she  was  like  who  had  not  had 
opportunities  of  feeling  her  personal  charm.  Her 
looks  were  certainly  not  striking  at  first  sight, 
though  to  most  persons  who  had  known  her  some 
weeks  she  would  often  seem  almost  beautiful.  To 
describe  her  features  would  give  no  idea  of  the 
brightness  and  vivacity  of  her  expression,  or  of  that 
mixture  of  innocence  and  mischief,  as  of  a  half- 
child,  half -Kelpie,  ^which  distinguished  her.  Her 
figure  was  very  small  but  well  made,  and  she  was 
always  prettily  and  daintily  dressed.  If  the  out- 
ward woman  is  difficult  to  describe,  what  can  be  said 
of  her  character? 

To  begin  with  her  lighter  side,  she  had  reduced 
fascination  to  a  fine  art  in  a  style  entirely  her  own. 
I  have  never  known  her  meet  any  man,  and  hardly 
any  woman,  whom  she  could  not  subjugate  in  a  few 
days.  It  is  as  difficult  to  give  any  idea  of  her  meth- 
ods as  to  describe  a  dance  when  the  music  is  un- 

[60] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

heard.  Perhaps  one  may  say  that  her  special  char- 
acteristic was  the  way  in  which  she  combined  the 
gaiety  of  a  child  with  the  tact  and  aplomb  of  a 
grown  woman.  .  .  .  Her  victims,  after  their  period 
of  enchantment,  generally  became  her  devoted 
friends. 

This  trifling  was,  however,  only  the  ripple  on  the 
surface.  In  the  deeper  parts  of  her  nature  was  a 
fund  of  earnestness  and  a  sympathy  which  enabled 
her  to  throw  herself  into  the  lives  of  other  people 
in  a  quite  unusual  way,  and  was  one  of  the  great 
secrets  of  the  general  affection  she  inspired.  It  was 
not,  however,  as  is  sometimes  the  case  with  such 
feelings,  merely  emotional,  but  impelled  her  to 
many  kindnesses  and  to  constant,  though  perhaps 
somewhat  impulsive,  efforts  to  help  her  fellows  of 
all  sorts  and  conditions. 

On  her  mental  side  she  certainly  gave  the  im- 
pression, from  the  originality  of  her  letters  and  say- 
ings, and  her  appreciation  of  what  was  best  in  lit- 
erature, that  her  gifts  were  of  a  high  order.  In 
addition,  she  had  a  subtle  humour  and  readiness, 
which  made  her  repartees  often  delightful  and  pro- 
duced phrases  and  fancies  of  characteristic  dainti- 
ness. But  there  was  something  more  than  all  this, 
an  extra  dose  of  life,  which  caused  a  kind  of  elec- 
tricity to  flash  about  her  wherever  she  went,  light- 
ing up  all  with  whom  she  came  in  contact.  I  am 
aware  that  this  description  will  seem  exaggerated, 
and  will  be  put  down  to  the  writer  having  dwelt  in 
her  "iEsean  isle"  but  I  think  that  if  it  should  meet 
the  eyes  of  any  who  knew  her  in  her  short  life,  they 
will  understand  what  it  attempts  to  convey. 

[615 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

This  is  good,  but  his  poem  is  even  better;  and 
there  is  a  prophetic  touch  in  the  line,  "Shadowed 
with  something  of  the  future  years/' 

A  face  upturned  towards  the  midnight  sky. 
Pale  in  the  glimmer  of  the  pale  starlight. 
And  all  around  the  black  and  boundless  night. 
And  voices  of  the  winds  which  bode  and  cry. 
A  childish  face,  but  grave  with  curves  that  lie 
Ready  to  breathe  in  laughter  or  in  tears. 
Shadowed  with  something  of  the  future  years 
That  makes  one  sorrowful,  I  know  not  why. 
O  still,  small  face,  like  a  white  petal  torn 
From  a  wild  rose  by  autumn  winds  and  flung 
On  some  dark  stream  the  hurrying  waves   among: 
By  what  strange  fates  and  whither  art  thou  borne? 

Laura  had  many  poems  written  to  her  from 
many  lovers.  My  daughter  Elizabeth  Bibesco's 
godfather,  Godfrey  Webb — a  conspicuous  mem- 
ber of  the  Souls,  not  long  since  dead — ^wrote  this 
of  her: 

"Half  child,  half  woman." 

Tennyson's  description  of  Laura  in  188S: 

"Half  child,  half  woman" — wholly  to  be  loved 
By  either  name  she  found  an  easy  way 
Into  my  heart,  whose  sentinels  all  proved 
Unfaithful  to  their  trust,  the  luckless  day 
She  entered  there.     "Prudence  and  re«ison  both! 

[62] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Did  you  not  question  her?     How  was  it  pray 

She  so  persuaded  you?"     "Nor  sleep  nor  sloth," 

They  cried,  "o'ercame  us  then,  a  child  at  play 

Went  smiling  past  us,  and  then  turning  round 

Too  late  your  heart  to  save,  a  woman's  face  we  found/' 

Laura  was  not  a  plaster  saint;  she  was  a  gen- 
erous, elamative,  combative  little  creature  of 
genius,  full  of  humour,  imagination,  temperament 
and  impulse. 

Some  one  reading  this  memoir  will  perhaps  say: 

"I  wonder  what  Laura  and  Margot  were  really 
like,  what  the  differences  and  what  the  resemblances 
between  them  were." 

The  men  who  could  answer  this  question  best 
would  be  Lord  Gladstone,  Arthur  Balfour,  Lord 
Midleton,  Sir  Rennell  Rodd,  or  Lord  Curzon  (of 
Kedleston).  I  can  only  say  what  I  think  the  dif- 
ferences and  resemblances  were. 

Strictly  speaking,  I  was  better-looking  than 
Laura,  but  she  had  rarer  and  more  beautiful  eyes. 
Brains  are  such  a  small  part  of  people  that  I  can- 
not judge  of  them  as  between  her  and  me;  and,  at 
the  age  of  twenty-three,  when  she  died,  few  of  us 
are  at  the  height  of  our  powers,  but  Laura  made 
and  left  a  deeper  impression  on  the  world  in  her 

[63] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

short  life  than  any  one  that  I  have  ever  known. 
What  she  really  had  to  a  greater  degree  than  other 
people  was  true  spirituality,  a  feeling  of  intimacy 
with  the  other  world  and  a  sense  of  the  love  and 
wisdom  of  God  and  His  plan  of  life.  Her  mind 
was  informed  by  true  religion;  and  her  heart  was 
fixed.  This  did  not  prevent  her  from  being  a  very 
great  flirt.  The  first  time  that  a  man  came  to  Glen 
and  liked  me  better  than  Laura,  she  was  immensely 
surprised — not  more  so  than  I  was — and  had  it  not 
been  for  the  passionate  love  which  we  cherished  for 
each  other,  there  must  inevitably  have  been  much 
jealousy  between  us. 

On  several  occasions  the  same  man  proposed  to 
both  of  us,  and  we  had  to  find  out  from  each  other 
what  our  intentions  were. 

I  only  remember  being  hurt  by  Laura  on  one 
occasion  and  it  came  about  in  this  way.  We  were 
always  dressed  alike,  and  as  we  were  the  same  size; 
"M"  and  "L"  had  to  be  written  in  our  clothes 
as  we  grew  older. 

One  day,  about  the  time  of  which  I  am  writing, 

I  was  thirteen ;  I  took  a  letter  out  of  the  pocket  of 

what  I  thought  was  my  skirt  and  read  it;  it  was 

from  Laura  to  my  eldest  sister  Posie  and,  though 

[64] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  do  not  remember  it  all,  one  sentence  was  burnt 
into  me: 

"Does  it  not  seem  extraordinary  that  Margot 
should  be  teaching  a  Sunday  class?  " 

I  wondered  why  any  one  should  think  it  extra- 
ordinary! I  went  upstairs  and  cried  in  a  small 
black  cupboard,  where  I  generally  disappeared 
when  life  seemed  too  much  for  me. 

The  Sunday  class  I  taught  need  have  disturbed 
no  one,  for  I  regret  to  relate  that,  after  a  striking 
lesson  on  the  birth  of  Christ,  when  I  asked  my 
pupils  who  the  Virgin  was,  one  of  the  most  promis- 
ing said : 

"Queen  Victoria!" 

The  idea  had  evidently  gone  abroad  that  I  was  a 
frivolous  character;  this  hurt  and  surprised  me. 
Naughtiness  and  frivolity  are  different,  and  I  was 
always  deeply  in  earnest. 

Laura  was  more  gentle  than  I  was ;  and  her  good- 
ness resolved  itself  into  greater  activity. 

She  and  I  belonged  to  a  reading-class.  I  read 
more  than  she  did  and  at  greater  speed,  but  we 
were  all  readers  and  profited  by  a  climate  which 
kept  us  indoors  and  a  fine  library.  The  class 
obliged  us  to  read  an  hour  a  day,  which  could  not  be 

[65] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

called  excessive,  but  the  real  test  was  doing  the 
same  thing  at  the  same  time.  I  would  have  pre- 
ferred three  or  four  hours'  reading  on  wet  days  and 
none  on  fine,  but  not  so  our  Edinburgh  tutor. 

Laura  started  the  Girls'  Friendly  Society  in  the 
village,  which  was  at  that  time  famous  for  its 
drunkenness  and  immorality.  We  drove  ourselves 
to  the  meetings  in  a  high  two-wheeled  dog-cart 
behind  a  fast  trotter,  coming  back  late  in  pitch 
darkness  along  icy  roads.  These  drives  to  Inner- 
leithen and  our  moonlight  talks  are  among  my  most 
precious  recollections. 

At  the  meetings — after  reading  aloud  to  the 
girls  while  they  sewed  and  knitted — Laura  would 
address  them.  She  gave  a  sort  of  lesson,  moral, 
social  and  religious,  and  they  all  adored  her.  More 
remarkable  at  her  age  than  speaking  to  mill-girls 
werjC  her  Sunday  classes  at  Glen,  in  the  house- 
keeper's room.  I  do  not  know  one  girl  now  of  any 
age — Laura  was  only  sixteen — who  could  talk  on 
religious  subjects  with  profit  to  the  butler,  house- 
keeper and  maids,  or  to  any  grown-up  people,  on  a 
Sunday  afternoon. 

Compared  with  what  the  young  men  have  written 
and  published  during  this  war,  Laura's  literary 
[66] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

promise  was  not  great;  both  her  prose  and  her 
poetry  were  less  remarkable  than  her  conversation. 

She  was  not  so  good  a  judge  of  character  as  I 
was  and  took  many  a  goose  for  a  swan,  but,  in  con- 
sequence of  this,  she  made  people  of  both  sexes — 
and  even  all  ages — twice  as  good,  clever  and  de- 
lightful as  they  would  otherwise  have  been. 

I  have  never  succeeded  in  making  any  one  the 
least  different  from  what  they  are  and,  in  my  efforts 
to  do  so,  have  lost  every  female  friend  that  I  have 
ever  had  (with  the  exception  of  four).  This  was 
the  true  difference  between  us.  I  have  never  in- 
fluenced anybody  but  my  own  two  children,  Eliza- 
beth and  Anthony,  but  Laura  had  such  an  amazing 
effect  upon  men  and  women  that  for  years  after 
she  died  they  told  me  that  she  had  both  changed 
and  made  their  lives.  This  is  a  tremendous  saying. 
When  I  die,  people  may  turn  up  and  try  to  make 
the  world  believe  that  I  have  influenced  them  and 
women  may  come  forward  whom  I  adored  and  who 
have  quarrelled  with  me  and  pretend  that  they 
always  loved  me,  but  I  wish  to  put  it  on  record  that 
they  did  not,  or,  if  they  did,  their  love  is  not  my 
kind  of  love  and  I  have  no  use  for  it. 

The  fact  is  that  I  am  not  touchy  or  impenitent 

[67] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

myself  and  forget  that  others  may  be  and  I  tell 
people  the  truth  about  themselves,  while  Laura 
made  them  feel  it.  I  do  not  think  I  should  mind 
hearing  from  any  one  the  naked  truth  about  myself ; 
and  on  the  few  occasions  when  it  has  happened  to 
me,  I  have  not  been  in  the  least  offended.  My  chief 
complaint  is  that  so  few  love  one  enough,  as  one 
grows  older,  to  say  what  they  really  think;  never- 
theless I  have  often  wished  that  I  had  been  bom 
with  Laura's  skill  and  tact  in  dealing  with  men  and 
women.  In  her  short  life  she  influenced  more 
people  than  I  have  done  in  over  twice  as  many 
years.  I  have  never  influenced  people  even  enough 
to  make  them  change  their  stockings !  And  I  have 
never  succeeded  in  persuading  any  young  persons 
under  my  charge — except  my  own  two  children — 
to  say  that  they  were  wrong  or  sorry,  nor  at  this 
time  of  life  do  I  expect  to  do  so. 

There  was  another  difference  between  Laura  and 
me:  she  felt  sad  when  she  refused  the  men  v/ho 
proposed  to  her;  I  pitied  no  man  who  loved  me.  I 
told  Laura  that  both  her  lovers  and  mine  had  a 
very  good  chance  of  getting  over  it,  as  they  in- 
variably declared  themselves  too  soon.  We  were 
neither  of  us  atu  fond  very  susceptible.  It  was  the 
[68] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

custom  of  the  house  that  men  should  be  in  love  with 
us,  but  I  can  truly  say  that  we  gave  quite  as  much 
as  we  received. 

I  said  to  Rowley  Leigh* — a  friend  of  my  brother 
Eddy's  and  one  of  the  first  gentlemen  that  ever 
came  to  Glen — when  he  begged  me  to  go  for  a  walk 
with  him: 

"Certainly,  if  you  won't  ask  me  to  marry  you." 

To  which  he  replied : 

"I  never  thought  of  it!" 

"That's  all  right!"  said  I,  putting  my  arm  con- 
fidingly and  gratefully  through  his. 

He  told  me  afterwards  that  he  had  been  making 
up  his  mind  and  changing  it  for  days  as  to  how  he 
should  propose. 

Sir  David  Tennant,  a  former  Speaker  at  Cape 
Town  and  the  most  distant  of  cousins,  came  to  stay 
at  Glen  with  his  son,  a  young  man  of  twenty.  After 
a  few  days,  the  young  man  took  me  into  one  of  the 
conservatories  and  asked  me  to  marry  him.  I 
pointed  out  that  I  hardly  knew  him  by  sight,  and 
that  "he  was  running  hares."  He  took  it  extremely 
well  and,  much  elated,  I  returned  to  the  house  to 
tell  Laura.    I  found  her  in  tears;  she  told  me  Sir 

•The  Hon.  Rowland  Leigh,  of  Stoneleigh  Abbey. 

[69] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

David  Tennant  had  asked  her  to  many  him  and 
she  had  been  obliged  to  refuse.  I  cheered  her  up 
by  pointing  out  that  it  would  have  been  awkward 
had  we  both  accepted,  for,  while  remaining  my 
sister,  she  would  have  become  my  mother-in-law 
and  my  husband's  stepmother. 

We  were  not  popular  in  Peeblesshire,  partly  be- 
cause we  had  no  county  connection,  but  chiefly  be- 
cause we  were  Liberals.  My  father  had  turned  out 
the  sitting  Tory,  Sir  Graham  Montgomery,  of 
Stobo,  and  was  member  for  the  two  counties 
Peeblesshire  and  Selkirkshire.  As  Sir  Graham  had 
represented  the  counties  for  thirty  years,  this  was 
resented  by  the  Montgomery  family,  who  proceeded 
to  cut  us.  Laura  was  much  worried  over  this,  but 
I  was  amused.  I  said  the  love  of  the  Maxwell 
Stuarts,  Maxwell  Scotts,  Wolfe  Murrays  and  Sir 
Thomas — now  Lord — Carmichael  was  quite  enough 
for  me  and  that  if  she  liked  she  could  twist  Sir 
Graham  Montgomery  round  her  little  finger;  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  neither  Sir  Graham  nor  his  sons  dis- 
liked us.  I  met  Basil  Montgomery  at  Traquair 
House  many  years  after  my  papa's  election,  where 
we  were  entertained  by  Herbert  Maxwell — ^the 
owner  of  one  of  the  most  romantic  houses  in  Scot- 
[70] 


^s-z^ 


y^'U^/tu^  ^ Uh(^^4)*i(lfUffh\y  ^  ^^^y^JiuMi 


DRAWING   BY   MARGOT  TENNANT   REFERRED   TO   IN   ACCOUNT  OF 

AMUSEMENTS  AT  GLEN,  ON  PAGE  74. 


[71] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

land,  and  our  most  courteous  and  affectionate 
neighbour.  Not  knowing  who  he  was,  I  was  indig- 
nant when  he  told  me  he  thought  Peeblesshire  was 
dull;  I  said  where  we  lived  it  was  far  from  dull  and 
asked  him  if  he  knew  many  people  in  the  county. 
To  which  he  answered: 

"  Chiefly  the  Stobo  lot." 

At  this  I  showed  him  the  most  lively  sympathy 
and  invited  him  to  come  to  Glen.  In  consequence 
of  this  visit  he  told  me  years  afterwards  his  fortune 
had  been  made.  My  father  took  a  fancy  to  him  and 
at  my  request  employed  him  on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change. 

Laura  and  I  shared  the  night  nursery  together 
till  she  married;  and,  in  spite  of  mixed  proposals, 
we  were  devoted  friends.  We  read  late  in  bed, 
sometimes  till  three  in  the  morning,  and  said  our 
prayers  out  loud  to  each  other  every  night.  We 
were  discussing  imagination  one  night  and  were 
comparing  Hawthorne,  De  Quincey,  Poe  and 
others,  in  consequence  of  a  dispute  arising  out  of 
one  of  our  pencil-games;  and  we  argued  till  the 
housemaid  came  in  with  the  hot  water  at  eight  in 
the  morning. 

I  will  digress  here  to  explain  our  after-dinner 

[78] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

games.  There  were  several,  but  the  best  were  what 
Laura  and  I  invented:  one  was  called  "Styles," 
another  "Clumps" — better  known  as  "Animal, 
Vegetable  or  Mineral" — a  third,  "Epigrams"  and 
the  most  dangerous  of  all  "Character  Sketches." 
We  were  given  no  time-limit,  but  sat  feverishly 
silent  in  different  corners  of  the  room,  writing  as 
hard  as  we  could.  When  it  was  agreed  that  we  had 
all  written  enough,  the  manuscripts  were  given  to 
our  umpire,  who  read  them  out  loud.  Votes  were 
then  taken  as  to  the  authorship,  which  led  to  first- 
rate  general  conversation  on  books,  people  and 
manner  of  writing.  We  have  many  interesting 
umpires,  beginning  with  Bret  Harte  and  Laurence 
Oliphant  and  going  on  to  Arthur  Balfour,  George 
Curzon,  George  Wyndham,  Lionel  Tennyson,* 
Harry  Cust  and  Doll  Liddell:  all  good  writers 
themselves. 

Some  of  our  guests  preferred  making  caricatures 
to  competing  in  the  more  ambitious  line  of  liter- 
ature. I  made  a  drawing  of  the  Dowager 
Countess  of  Aylesbury,  better  known  as  "Lady 
A.";  Colonel  Saunderson — a  famous  Orangeman 
— did  a  sketch  of  Gladstone  for  me;  while  Alma 

•Brother  of  the  present  Lord  Tennjson. 

[74] 


PORTRAIT   OF   QUEEN   VICTORIA   IN    FOUR   LINES;    REFERRED    TO 
ON  PAGE  77. 


[75] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Tadema  gave  me  one  of  Queen  Victoria,  done  in 
four  lines. 

These  games  were  good  for  our  tempers  and  a 
fine  training;  any  loose  vanity,  jealousy,  or  over- 
competitiveness  were  certain  to  be  shown  up;  and 
those  who  took  the  buttons  off  the  foils  in  the  duel 
of  argument — of  which  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  in 
my  life — were  instantly  found  out.  We  played  all 
our  games  with  much  greater  precision  and  care 
than  they  are  played  now  and  from  practice  became 
extremely  good  at  them.  I  never  saw  a  playing- 
card  at  Glen  till  after  I  married,  though — when  we 
were  obliged  to  dine  downstairs  to  prevent  the  com- 
pany being  thirteen  at  dinner — I  vaguely  remem- 
ber a  back  view  of  my  grandpapa  at  the  card-table 
playing  whist. 

Laura  was  a  year  and  a  half  older  than  I  was  and 
came  out  in  1881,  while  I  was  in  Dresden.  The 
first  party  that  she  and  I  went  to  together  was  a 
political  crush  given  by  Sir  William  and  Lady  Har- 
court.  I  was  introduced  to  Spencer  Lyttleton  and 
shortly  after  this  Laura  met  his  brother  Alfred. 

One  day,  as  she  and  I  were  leaving  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral,  she  pointed  out  a  young  man  to  me  and 
said: 

[77] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

"Go  and  ask  Alfred  Lyttelton  to  come  to  Glen 
any  time  this  autumn,"  which  I  promptly  did. 

The  advent  of  Alfred  into  our  family  coincided 
with  that  of  several  new  men,  the  Charterises,  Bal- 
fours,  George  Curzon,  George  Wyndham,  Harry 
Cust,  the  Crawleys,  Jack  Pease,  "Harry"  Paul- 
ton,  Lord  Houghton,  Mark  Napier,  Doll  Liddell 
and  others.  High  hopes  had  been  entertained  by 
my  father  that  some  of  these  young  men  might 
marry  us,  but  after  the  reception  we  gave  to  Lord 
Lymington — ^who,  to  do  him  justice,  never  proposed 
to  any  of  us  except  in  the  paternal  imagination — 
his  nerve  was  shattered  and  we  were  left  to  our- 
selves. 

Some  weeks  before  Alfred's  arrival,  Laura  had 
been  much  disturbed  by  hearing  that  we  were  con- 
sidered "fast";  she  told  me  that  receiving  men  at 
midnight  in  our  bedroom  shocked  people  and  that 
we  ought,  perhaps,  to  give  it  up.  I  listened  closely 
to  what  she  had  to  say,  and  at  the  end  remarked 
that  it  appeared  to  me  to  be  quite  absurd.  Godfrey 
Webb  agreed  with  me  and  said  that  people  who 
were  easily  shocked  were  like  women  who  sell  stale 
pastry  in  cathedral  towns;  and  he  advised  us  to 
take  no  notice  whatever  of  what  any  one  said.  We 
[78] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

hardly  knew  the  meaning  of  the  word  "fast"  and, 
as  my  mother  went  to  bed  punctually  at  eleven,  it 
was  unthinkable  that  men  and  women  friends 
should  not  be  allowed  to  join  us.  Our  bed- 
room had  been  converted  by  me  out  of  the  night- 
nursery  into  a  sitting-room.  The  shutters  were 
removed  and  book-shelves  put  in  their  place,  an 
idea  afterwards  copied  by  my  friends.  The  Morris 
carpet  and  chintzes  I  had  discovered  for  myself  and 
chosen  in  London ;  and  my  walls  were  ornamented 
with  curious  objects,  varying  from  caricatures  and 
crucifixes  to  prints  of  prize-fights,  fox-hunts,  Vir- 
gins and  Wagner.  In  one  of  the  turrets  I  hung  my 
clothes ;  in  the  other  I  put  an  altar  on  which  I  kept 
my  books  of  prayer  and  a  skull  which  was  given  to 
me  by  the  shepherd's  son  and  which  is  on  my  book- 
shelf now;  we  wore  charming  dressing- jackets  and 
sat  up  in  bed  with  coloured  cushions  behind  our 
backs,  while  the  brothers  and  their  friends  sat 
on  the  floor  or  in  comfortable  chairs  round 
the  room.  On  these  occasions  the  gas  was  turned 
low,  a  brilliant  fire  made  up  and  either  a  guest  or 
one  of  us  would  read  by  the  light  of  a  single  candle, 
tell  ghost-stories  or  discuss  current  affairs :  politics, 
people  and  books.    Not  only  the  young,  but  the  old 

[79] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

men  came  to  our  gatherings.  I  remember  Jowetf 
reading  out  aloud  to  us  Thomas  Hill  Green's  lay 
sermons;  and  when  he  had  finished  I  asked  him 
how  much  he  had  loved  Green,  to  which  he  replied : 

"I  did  not  love  him  at  all." 

That  these  midnight  meetings  should  shock  any- 
one appeared  fantastic;  and  as  most  people  in  the 
house  agreed  with  me,  they  were  continued. 

It  was  not  this  alone  that  disturbed  Laura;  she 
wanted  to  marry  a  serious,  manly  fellow,  but  as  she 
was  a  great  flirt,  other  types  of  a  more  brilliant  kind 
obscured  this  vision  and  she  had  become  profoundly 
undecided  over  her  own  love-affairs;  they  had 
worked  so  much  upon  her  nerves  that  when  Mr. 
Lyttelton  came  to  Glen  she  was  in  bed  with  acute 
neuralgia  and  unable  to  see  him. 

My  father  welcomed  Alfred  warmly,  for,  apart 
from  his  charming  personality,  he  was  Gladstone's 
nephew  and  had  been  brought  up  in  the  Liberal 
creed. 

On  the  evening  of  his  arrival,  we  all  went  out 
after  dinner.  There  had  been  a  terrific  gale  which 
had  destroyed  half  a  wood  on  a  hill  in  front  of  the 
library  windows  and  we  wanted  to  see  the  roots  of 
the  trees  blown  up  by  dynamite.  It  was  a  moon- 
[80] 


"^  r5#>%^.: 


:....^.  . 


DRAWING  OP  W.  E.  GLADSTONE  BY  HIS  FAMOUS  IRISH  POLITICAL 
OPPONENT,  COLONEL  SANDERSON;  REFERRED  TO  ON  PAGE  74. 


[81] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

light  night,  but  the  moon  is  always  brighter  in 
novels  than  in  life  and  it  was  pitch  dark.  Alfred 
and  I,  walking  arm  in  arm,  talked  gaily  to  each 
other  as  we  stmnbled  over  the  broken  brushwood  by 
the  side  of  the  Quair  bum.  As  we  approached  the 
wood  a  white  birch  lay  across  the  water  at  a  slant- 
ing angle  and  I  could  not  resist  leaving  Alfred's 
side  to  walk  across  it.  It  was,  however,  too  slip- 
pery for  me  and  I  fell.  Alfred  plunged  into  the 
burn  and  scrambled  me  out.  I  landed  on  my  feet 
and,  except  for  sopping  stockings,  no  harm  was 
done.  Our  party  had  scattered  in  the  dark  and, 
as  it  was  past  midnight,  we  walked  back  to  the 
house  alone.  When  we  returned,  we  found  every- 
body had  gone  to  their  rooms  and  Alfred  sug- 
gested carrying  me  up  to  bed.  As  I  weighed  under 
eight  stone,  he  lifted  me  up  like  a  toy  and  de- 
posited me  on  my  bed.  Kneeling  down,  he  kissed 
my  hand  and  said  good  night  to  me. 

Two  days  after  this  my  brother  Eddy  and  I  trav- 
elled North  for  the  Highland  meeting.  Laura, 
who  had  been  gradually  recovering,  was  well 
enough  to  leave  her  room  that  day;  and  I  need 
hardly  say  that  this  had  the  immediate  effect  of 
prolonging  Alfred's  visit. 

[88] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

On  my  return  to  Glen  ten  days  later  she  told  me 
she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  Alfred  Lyt- 
tleton. 

•  •••••• 

After  what  Mrs.  Lyttelton  has  written  of  her 
husband,  there  is  little  to  add,  but  I  must  say  one 
word  of  my  brother-in-law  as  he  appeared  to  me  in 
those  early  days. 

Alfred  Lyttelton  was  a  vital,  splendid  young 
man  of  fervent  nature,  even  more  spoilt  than  we 
were.  He  was  as  cool  and  as  fundamentally  un- 
susceptible as  he  was  responsive  and  emotional. 
Every  one  adored  him ;  he  combined  the  prowess  at 
games  of  a  Greek  athlete  with  moral  right-minded- 
ness of  a  high  order.  He  was  neither  a  gambler 
nor  an  artist.  He  respected  discipline,  but  loathed 
asceticism. 

What  interested  me  most  in  him  was  not  his 
mind — which  lacked  elasticity — ^but  his  religion,  his 
unquestioning  obedience  to  the  will  of  God  and  his 
perfect  freedom  from  cant.  His  mentality  was 
brittle  and  he  was  as  quick-tempered  in  argument 
as  he  was  sunny  and  serene  in  games.  There  are 
people  who  thought  Alfred  was  a  man  of  strong 
physical  passions,  wrestling  with  temptation  till  he 
[84] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

had  achieved  complete  self-mastery,  but  nothing 
was  farther  from  the  truth.  In  him  you  found 
combined  an  ardent  nature,  a  cool  temperament 
and  a  peppery  intellectual  temper.  Alfred  would 
have  been  justified  in  taking  out  a  patent  in  him- 
self as  an  Englishman,  warranted  like  a  dye  never 
to  lose  colour.  To  him  most  foreigners  were  frogs. 
In  Edward  Lyttelton's  admirable  monograph  of 
his  brother,  you  will  read  that  one  day,  when  Alfred 
was  in  the  train,  sucking  an  orange,  "a  small, 
grubby  Italian,  leaning  on  his  walking-stick,  smok- 
ing a  cheroot  at  the  station,"  was  looked  upon,  not 
only  by  Alfred  but  by  his  biographer,  as  an  "irre- 
sistible challenge  to  fling  the  juicy,  but  substan- 
tial, fragment  full  at  the  unsuspecting  foreigner's 
cheek."  At  this  we  are  told  that  "Alfred  collapsed 
into  noble  convulsions  of  laughter."  I  quote  this 
incident,  as  it  illustrates  the  difference  between  the 
Tennant  and  the  Lyttelton  sense  of  humour.  Their 
laughter  was  a  tornado  or  convulsion  to  which  they 
succumbed ;  and  even  the  Hagley  ragging,  though, 
according  to  Edward  Lyttelton's  book,  it  was  only 
done  with  napkins,  sounds  formidable  enough. 
Laura  and  Alfred  enjoyed  many  things  together — 
books,  music  and  going  to  church — but  they  did 

[85] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

not  laugh  at  the  same  things.  I  remember  her 
once  saying  to  me  in  a  dejected  voice: 

"Wouldn't  you  have  thought  that,  laughing  as 
loud  as  the  Lytteltons  do,  they  would  have  loved 
Lear?  Alfred  says  none  of  them  think  him  a  bit 
funny  and  was  quite  testy  when  I  said  his  was  the 
only  family  in  the  world  that  didn't." 

It  was  his  manliness,  spirituality  and  freedom 
from  pettiness  that  attracted  Alfred  to  Laura;  he 
also  had  infinite  charm.  It  might  have  been  said 
of  him  what  the  Dowager  Lady  Grey  wrote  of  her 
husband  to  Henry  when  thanking  him  for  his 
sympathy : 

"He  lit  so  many  fires  in  cold  rooms." 

After  Alfred's  death,  my  husband  said  this  of 
him  in  the  House  of  Commons : 

It  would  not,  I  think,  be  doing  justice  to  the 
feelings  which  are  uppermost  in  many  of  our 
hearts,  if  we  passed  to  the  business  of  the  day  with- 
out taking  notice  of  the  fresh  gap  which  has  been 
made  in  our  ranks  by  the  untimely  death  of  Mr. 
Alfred  Lyttelton.  It  is  a  loss  of  which  I  hardly 
trust  myself  to  speak ;  for,  apart  from  ties  of  rela- 
tionship, there  had  subsisted  between  us  for  thirty- 
three  years,  a  close  friendship  and  affection  which 

[86] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

no  political  differences  were  ever  allowed  to  loosen, 
or  even  to  aflFect.  Nor  could  I  better  describe  it 
than  by  saying  that  he,  perhaps,  of  all  men  of  this 
generation,  came  nearest  to  the  mould  and  ideal  of 
manhood,  which  every  English  father  would  like  to 
see  his  son  aspire  to,  and,  if  possible,  to  attain.  The 
bounty  of  nature,  enriched  and  developed  not  only 
by  early  training,  but  by  constant  self-discipline 
through  life,  blended  in  him  gifts  and  graces  which, 
taken  alone,  are  rare,  and  in  such  attractive  union 
are  rarer  still.  Body,  mind  and  character,  the 
schoolroom,  the  cricket  field,  the  Bar,  the  House  of 
Commons — each  made  its  separate  contribution  to 
the  faculty  and  the  experience  of  a  many-sided  and 
harmonious  whole.  But  what  he  was  he  gave — 
gave  with  such  ease  and  exuberance  that  I  think  it 
may  be  said  without  exaggeration  that  wherever 
he  moved  he  seemed  to  radiate  vitality  and  charm. 
He  was,  as  we  here  know,  a  strenuous  fighter.  He 
has  left  behind  him  no  resentments  and  no  enmity ; 
nothing  but  a  gracious  memory  of  a  manly  and 
winning  personality,  the  memory  of  one  who  served 
with  an  unstinted  measure  of  devotion  his  genera- 
tion and  country.  He  has  been  snatched  away  in 
what  we  thought  was  the  full  tide  of  buoyant  life, 
still  full  of  promise  and  of  hope.  What  more  can 
we  say?  We  can  only  bow  once  again  before  the 
decrees  of  the  Supreme  Wisdom.  Those  who  loved 
him — and  they  are  many,  in  all  schools  of  opinion, 
in  all  ranks  and  walks  of  life — when  they  think  of 
him,  will  say  to  themselves : 

[87] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

This  IS  the  happy  warrior,  this  is  he 
Who  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 

On  the  occasion  of  Alfred  Lyttelton's  second 
visit  to  Glen,  I  will  quote  my  diary: 

"  Laura  came  into  my  bedroom.  She  was  in  a 
peignoir  and  asked  me  what  she  should  wear  for 
dinner.    I  said: 

"  '  Your  white  muslin,  and  hurry  up.  Mr.  Lyttel- 
ton  is  strumming  in  the  Doo'cot  and  you  had  better 
go  and  entertain  him,  poor  fellow,  as  he  is  leaving 
for  London  to-night.' 

"She  tied  a  blue  ribbon  in  her  hair,  hastily  thrust 
her  diamond  brooch  into  her  fichu  and  then,  with 
her  eyes  very  big  and  her  hair  low  and  straight 
upon  her  forehead,  she  went  into  our  sitting-room 
(we  called  it  the  Doo'cot,  because  we  all  quarrelled 
there).  Feeling  rather  small,  but,  half -shy,  half- 
bold,  she  shut  the  door  and,  leaning  against  it, 
watched  Alfred  strumming.  He  turned  and  gazed 
at  the  little  figure  so  near  him,  so  delicate  in  her 
white  dress. 

"The  silence  was  broken  by  Alfred  asking  her  if 
any  man  ever  left  Glen  without  telling  her  that  he 
loved  her;  but  suddenly  all  talk  stopped  and  she 
[88] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

was  in  his  arms,  hiding  her  little  face  against  his 
hard  coat.  There  was  no  one  to  record  what  fol- 
lowed; only  the  night  rising  with  passionate  eyes: 
*The  hiding,  receiving  night  that  talks  not.' 

"They  were  married  on  the  10th  of  May,  1885. 

"In  April  of  1886,  Laura's  baby  was  expected 
any  day;  and  my  mother  was  anxious  that  I  should 
not  be  near  her  when  the  event  took  place.  The 
Lytteltons  lived  in  Upper  Brook  Street;  and, 
Grosvenor  Square  being  near,  it  was  thought 
that  any  suffering  on  her  part  might  make  a  last- 
ing and  painful  impression  on  me,  so  I  was  sent 
down  to  Easton  Grey  to  stay  with  Lucy  and  hunt 
in  the  Badminton  country.  Before  going  away, 
I  went  round  to  say  good-bye  to  Laura  and  found 
her  in  a  strange  humour. 

"  Laura  :  *I  am  sure  I  shall  die  with  my  baby.' 

"Margot:  *IIow  can  you  talk  such  nonsense? 
Every  one  thinks  that.  Look  at  mamma !  She  had 
twelve  children  without  a  pang!' 

"Laura:  *I  know  she  did;  but  I  am  sure  I  shall 
die.' 

"Margot:  'I  am  just  as  likely  to  be  killed  out 
hunting  as  you  are  to  die,  darling!  It  makes  me 
miserable  to  hear  you  talk  like  this.' 

[89] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

"Laura:  *If  I  die,  Margot,  I  want  you  to  read 
my  will  to  the  relations  and  people  that  will  be  in 
my  bedroom.  It  is  in  that  drawer.  Promise  me 
you  will  not  forget.' 

"Margot:  *A11  right,  darling,  I  will;  but  let  us 
kneel  down  and  pray  that,  whether  it  is  me  or  you 
who  die  first,  if  it  is  God's  will,  one  of  us  may  come 
to  the  other  down  here  and  tell  us  the  truth  about 
the  next  world  and  console  us  as  much  as  possible 
in  this  r" 

We  knelt  and  prayed  and,  though  I  was  more 
removed  from  the  world  and  in  the  humour  both 
to  see  and  to  hear  what  was  not  material,  in  my 
grief  over  Laura's  death,  which  took  place  ten  days 
later,  I  have  never  heard  from  her  or  of  her  from 
that  day  to  this. 

Mrs.  Lyttelton  has  told  the  story  of  her  hus- 
band's first  marriage  with  so  much  perfection  that 
I  hesitate  to  go  over  the  same  ground  again,  but, 
as  my  sister  Laura's  death  had  more  effect  on  me 
than  any  event  in  my  life,  except  my  own  marriage 
and  the  birth  of  my  children,  I  must  copy  a  short 
account  of  it  written  at  that  time: 
[90] 


LORD  OLENCONKER,   WHO  APPEARS   IK    THE    DIARY   AS  EDDY, 
HE   MARRIED  OKE   OF  THE   WYXDHAM   SISTERS. 


"THE  THREE  SISTERS':  FROM  A  PAIKTINO 
BY   JOHN    8.    SARGENT 


Daughters  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Percy  Wyndham:  From 
left  to  right,  Mrs.  Adeane  (Madeline  Pamela  Con- 
stance Blanche),  Lady  Glenconner  (Pamela),  The 
Countess  of  Wemyss  (Mary  Constance) 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

*0n  Saturday,  17th  April,  1886,  I  was  riding 
dc^rn  a  green  slope  in  Gloucestershire  while  the 
Beaufort  hounds  were  scattered  below  vainly  try- 
ing to  pick  up  the  scent;  they  were  on  a  stale  line 
and  the  result  had  been  general  confusion.  It  was 
a  hot  day  and  the  woods  were  full  of  children  and 
primroses. 

"The  air  was  humming  with  birds  and  insects, 
nature  wore  an  expectant  look  and  all  the  hedge- 
rows sparkled  with  the  spangles  of  the  spring. 
There  was  a  prickly  gap  under  a  tree  which  divided 
me  from  my  companions.  I  rode  down  to  jump  it, 
but,  whether  from  breeding,  laziness  or  temper, 
my  horse  turned  round  and  refused  to  move.  I 
took  my  foot  out  of  the  stirrup  and  gave  him  a 
slight  kick.  I  remember  nothing  after  that  till  I 
woke  up  in  a  cottage  with  a  tremendous  headache. 
They  said  that  the  branch  was  too  low,  or  the  horse 
jumped  too  big  and  a  withered  bough  had  caught 
me  in  the  face.  In  consequence  I  had  concussion 
of  the  brain ;  and  my  nose  and  upper  lip  were  badly 
torn.  I  was  picked  up  by  my  early  fiance.  He 
tied  my  lip  to  my  hair — as  it  was  reposing  on  my 
chin — and  took  me  home  in  a  cart.  The  doctor  was 
sent  for,  but  there  was  no  time  to  give  me  chloro- 

[91] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

form.  I  sat  very  still  from  vanity  while  three 
stitches  were  put  through  the  most  sensitive  part  of 
my  nose.  When  it  was  all  over,  I  looked  at  myself 
in  the  looking-glass  and  burst  into  tears.  I  had  never 
been  very  pretty  ("worse  than  that,"  as  the 
Marquis  of  Soveral  *  said)  but  I  had  a  straight  nose 
and  a  look  of  intelligence ;  and  now  my  face  would 
be  marked  for  life  like  a  German  student's. 

"The  next  day  a  telegram  arrived  saying: 

"  *Laura  confined — a  boy — both  doing  well.' 

"We  sent  back  a  message  saying: 

"  *Hurrah  and  blessing!* 

On  Sunday  we  received  a  letter  from  Charty 
saying  Laura  was  very  ill  and  another  on  Monday 
telling  us  to  go  to  London.  I  was  in  a  state  of 
acute  anxiety  and  said  to  the  doctor  I  must  go  and 
see  Laura  immediately,  but  he  would  not  hear  of  it : 

"  'Impossible !  You'll  get  erysipelas  and  die. 
Most  dangerous  to  move  with  a  face  like  that,' 
he  said. 

"On  the  occasion  of  his  next  visit,  I  was  dressed 
and  walking  up  and  down  the  room  in  a  fume  of 
nervous  excitement,  for  go  I  would.  Laura  was 
dying  (I  did  not  really  think  she  was,  but  I  wanted 

•TTie  late  Portuguese  Minister. 

[92] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

to  be  near  her).  I  insisted  upon  his  taking  the 
stitches  out  of  my  face  and  ultimately  he  had  to 
give  in.  At  6  p.m.  I  was  in  the  train  for  London, 
watching  the  telegraph-posts  flying  past  me. 

"My  mind  was  going  over  every  possibility.  I 
was  sitting  near  her  bed  with  the  baby  on  my  arm, 
chattering  over  plans,  arranging  peignoirs,  laugh- 
ing at  the  nurse's  anecdotes,  talking  and  whisper- 
ing over  the  thousand  feminine  things  that  I  knew 
she  would  be  longing  to  hear.  ...  Or  perhaps 
she  was  dying  .  .  .  asking  for  me  and  wonder- 
ing why  I  did  not  come  .  .  .  thinking  I  was 
hunting  instead  of  being  with  her.  Oh,  how  often 
the  train  stopped!  Did  any  one  really  live  at  these 
stations?  No  one  got  out;  they  did  not  look  like 
real  places;  why  should  the  train  stop?  Should 
I  tell  them  Laura  was  dying?  .  .  .  We  had 
prayed  so  often  to  die  the  same  day.  .  .  . 
Surely  she  was  not  going  to  die  ...  it  could 
not  be  .  .  .  her  vitality  was  too  splendid,  her 
youth  too  great  .  .  .  God  would  not  allow 
this  thing.  How  stiff  my  face  felt  with  its  band- 
ages ;  and  if  I  cried  they  would  all  come  off ! 

"At  Swindon  I  had  to  change.  I  got  out  and 
sat  in  the  vast  eating-room,  with  its  atmosphere  of 

[93] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

soup  and  gas.  A  crowd  of  people  were  talking  of 
a  hunting  accident :  this  was  mine.  Then  a  woman 
came  in  and  put  her  bag  down.  A  clergyman 
shook  hands  with  her;  he  said  some  one  had  died. 
I  moved  away. 

''"World!  Trewth!  The  Globe!  Paper,  miss? 
Paper?     .     .     / 

"  *No,  thank  you.' 

"  'London  train!'  was  shouted  and  I  got  in.  I 
knew  by  the  loud  galloping  sound  that  we  were 
going  between  high  houses  and  at  each  gallop  the 
wheels  seemed  to  say,  *Too  late — ^too  late!'  After 
a  succession  of  hoarse  screams  we  dashed  into 
Paddington. 

"It  was  midnight.  I  saw  a  pale,  grave  face,  and 
recognised  Evan  Charteris,  who  had  come  in  Lady 
Wemyss'  brougham  to  meet  me.    I  said: 

"*Is  she  dead?' 

"To  which  he  answered: 

"  *No,  but  very,  very  ill.' 

"We  drove  in  silence  to  4  Upper  Brook  Street. 

Papa,  Jack  and  Godfrey  Webb  stood  in  the  hall. 

They  stopped  me  as  I  passed  and  said:  *She  is  no 

worse';  but  I  could  not  listen.     I  saw  Arthur 

[94] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Balfour  and  Spencer  Lyttelton  standing  near  the 
door  of  Alfred's  room.    They  said: 

"* You  look  ill.    Have  you  had  a  fall?' 

"I  explained  the  plaster  on  my  swollen  face  and 
asked  if  I  might  go  upstairs  to  see  Laura;  and  they 
said  they  thought  I  might.  When  I  got  to  the  top 
landing,  I  stood  in  the  open  doorway  of  the  bou- 
doir. A  man  was  sitting  in  an  arm-chair  by  a  table 
with  a  candle  on  it.  It  was  Alfred  and  I  passed  on. 
I  saw  the  silhouette  of  a  woman  through  the  open 
door  of  Laura's  room;  this  was  Charty.  We  held 
each  other  close  to  our  hearts  .  .  .  her  face 
felt  hot  and  her  eyes  were  heavy. 

"  *Don't  look  at  her  to-night,  sweet.  She  is 
unconscious,'  she  said. 

"I  did  not  take  this  in  and  asked  to  be  allowed 
to  say  one  word  to  her.     ...     I  said: 

"  'I  know  she'd  like  to  see  me,  darling,  if  only 
just  to  nod  to,  and  I  promise  I  will  go  away 
quickly.  Indeed,  indeed  I  would  not  tire  her!  I 
want  to  tell  her  the  train  was  late  and  the  doctor 
would  not  let  me  come  up  yesterday.  Only  one 
second,  please,  Charty!     .      .      .' 

"  *But,  my  darling  heart,  she's  unconscious.    She 

[95] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

has  never  been  conscious  all  day.    She  would  not 
know  you !' 

"I  sank  stunned  upon  the  stair.  Some  one 
touched  my  shoulder: 

**  *You  had  better  go  to  bed,  it  is  past  one.  No, 
you  can't  sleep  here:  there's  no  bed.  You  must 
lie  down;  a  sofa  won't  do,  you  are  too  ill.  Very 
well,  then,  you  are  not  ill,  but  you  will  be  to-morrow 
if  you  don't  go  to  bed.' 

"I  found  myself  in  the  street,  Arthur  Balfour 
holding  one  of  my  arms  and  Spencer  Lyttelton  the 
other.  They  took  me  to  40  Grosvenor  Square.  I 
went  to  bed  and  early  next  morning  I  went  across 
to  Upper  Brook  Street.  The  servant  looked 
happy: 

"  *She's  better,  miss,  and  she's  conscious.' 

"I  flew  upstairs,  and  Charty  met  me  in  her 
dressing-gown.  She  was  calm  and  capable  as 
always,  but  a  new  look,  less  questioning  and  more 
intense,  had  come  into  her  face.    She  said: 

"  *  You  can  go  in  now.' 

"I   felt  a  rushing  of  my  soul   and  an  over- 
eagerness  that  half-stopped  me  as  I  opened  the 
door  and  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  wooden  bed  and 
gazed  at  what  was  left  of  Laura. 
[96] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"Her  face  had  shrunk  to  the  size  of  a  child's; 
her  lashes  lay  a  black  wall  on  the  whitest  of 
cheeks;  her  hair  was  hanging  dragged  up  from  her 
square  brow  in  heavy  folds  upon  the  pillow.  Her 
mouth  was  tightly  shut  and  a  dark  blood-stain 
marked  her  chin.  After  a  long  silence,  she  moved 
and  muttered  and  opened  her  eyes.  She  fixed 
them  on  me,  and  my  heart  stopped.  I  stretched 
my  hands  out  towards  her,  and  said,  *Laura!'  .  ,  , 
But  the  sound  died ;  she  did  not  know  me.  I  knew 
after  that  she  could  not  live. 

"People  went  away  for  the  Easter  Holidays: 
Papa  to  North  Berwick,  Arthur  Balfour  to  West- 
ward Ho!  and  every  day  Godfrey  Webb  rode  a 
patient  cob  up  to  the  front  door,  to  hear  that  she 
was  no  better.  I  sat  on  the  stairs  listening  to  the 
roar  of  London  and  the  clock  in  the  library.  The 
doctor — Matthews  Duncan — patted  my  head 
whenever  he  passed  me  on  the  stair  and  said,  in  his 
gentle  Scotch  accent: 

"  'Poor  little  girl!    Poor,  poor  little  girl!' 

"I  was  glad  he  did  not  say  that  Vhile  there  was 
life  there  was  hope,'  or  any  of  the  medical  plati- 
tudes, or  I  would  have  repUed  that  he  lied.  There 
was  no  hope — none!    .    •    . 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

"One  afternoon  I  went  with  Lucy  to  St. 
George's,  Hanover  Square.  The  old  man  was 
sweeping  out  the  church ;  and  we  knelt  and  prayed. 
Laura  and  I  have  often  knelt  side  by  side  at  that 
altar  and  I  never  feel  alone  when  I  am  in  front 
of  the  mysterious  Christ-picture,  with  its  bars  of 
violet  and  bunches  of  grapes, 

"On  my  return  I  went  upstairs  and  lay  on  the 
floor  of  Laura's  bedroom,  watching  Alfred  kneel- 
ing by  her  side  with  his  arms  over  his  head.  Charty 
sat  with  her  hands  clasped;  a  single  candle  behind 
her  head  transfigured  her  lovely  hair  into  a  halo. 
Suddenly  Laura  opened  her  eyes  and,  turning  them 
slowly  on  Charty,  said: 

**  *You  are  heavenly!    .     .     .* 

"A  long  pause,  and  then  while  we  were  all  three 
drawing  near  her  bed  we  heard  her  say : 

"  *I  think  God  has  forgotten  me.' 

"The  fire  was  weaving  patterns  on  the  ceiling; 
every  shadow  seemed  to  be  looking  with  pity  on 
the  silence  of  that  room,  the  long  silence  that  has 
never  been  broken. 

•  •••••• 

"I  did  not  go  home  that  night,  but  slept  at 
Alfred's  house.    Lucy  had  gone  to  the  early  Com- 
[98] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

munion,  but  I  had  not  accompanied  her,  as  I  was 
tired  of  praying.  I  must  have  fallen  into  a  heavy- 
sleep,  when  suddenly  I  felt  some  one  touching  my 
bed.  I  woke  with  a  start  and  saw  nurse  standing 
beside  me.    She  said  in  a  calm  voice: 

"  *My  dear,  you  must  come.  Don't  look  like  that; 
you  won't  be  able  to  walk.' 

"Able  to  walk!  Of  course  I  was!  I  was  in  my 
dressing-gown  and  downstairs  in  a  flash  and  on 
to  the  bed.  The  room  was  full  of  people.  I  lay 
with  my  arm  under  Laura,  as  I  did  in  the  old  Glen 
days,  when  after  our  quarrels  we  crept  into  each 
other's  beds  to  *make  it  up.'  Alfred  was  holding 
one  of  her  hands  against  his  forehead ;  and  Charty 
was  kneeling  at  her  feet. 

"She  looked  much  the  same,  but  a  deeper  shadow 
ran  under  her  brow  and  her  mouth  seemed  to 
be  harder  shut.  I  put  my  cheek  against  her 
shoulder  and  felt  the  sharpness  of  her  spine.  For 
a  minute  we  lay  close  to  each  other,  while  the  sun, 
fresh  from  the  dawn,  played  upon  the  window- 
blinds.  .  .  .  Then  her  breathing  stopped; 
she  gave  a  shiver  and  died.  .  .  .  The  silence 
was  so  great  that  I  heard  the  flight  of  Death  and 
the  morning  salute  her  soul. 

[99] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

"I  went  downstairs  and  took  her  will  out  of  the 
drawer  where  she  had  put  it  and  told  Alfred  what 
she  had  asked  me  to  do.  The  room  was  dark  with 
people;  and  a  tall  man,  gaunt  and  fervid,  was 
standing  up  saying  a  prayer.  When  he  had  finished 
I  read  the  will  through : 

My  Will*  made  by  me,  Laura  Mary  Octavia 
Lyttelton,  February,  1886. 

"I  have  not  much  to  leave  behind  me,  should  I 
die  next  month,  having  my  treasure  deep  in  my 
heart  where  no  one  can  reach  it,  and  where  even 
Death  cannot  enter.  But  there  are  some  things 
that  have  long  lain  at  the  gates  of  my  Joy  House 
that  in  some  measure  have  the  colour  of  my  life 
in  them,  and  would,  by  rights  of  love,  belong  to 
those  who  have  entered  there.  I  should  like  Alfred 
to  give  these  things  to  my  friends,  not  because  my 
friends  will  care  so  much  for  them,  but  because  they 
will  love  best  being  where  I  loved  to  be. 

"I  want,  first  of  all,  to  tell  Alfred  that  all  I  have 
in  the  world  and  all  I  am  and  ever  shall  be,  belongs 
to  him,  and  to  him  more  than  any  one,  so  that  if  I 
leave  away  from  him  anything  that  speaks  to  him 
of  a  joy  unknown  to  me,  or  that  he  holds  dear 
for  any  reason  wise  or  unwise,  it  is  his,  and  my  dear 
friends  will  forgive  him  and  me. 

**So  few  women  have  been  as  happy  as  I  have 
been  every  hour  since  I  married — so  few  have  had 

•Tlic  only  part  of  the  will  I  have  left  out  is  a  few  names  with 
blank  spaces  which  she  intended  to  fill  up. 

[100] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

such  a  wonderful  sky  of  love  for  their  common 
atmosphere,  that  perhaps  it  will  seem  strange  when 
I  write  down  that  the  sadness  of  Death  and  Part- 
ing is  greatly  lessened  to  me  by  the  fact  of  my 
consciousness  of  the  eternal,  indivisible  oneness  of 
Alfred  and  me,  I  feel  as  long  as  he  is  down  here  I 
must  be  here,  silently,  secretly  sitting  beside  him 
as  I  do  every  evening  now,  however  much  my  soul 
is  the  other  side,  and  that  if  Alfred  were  to  die,  we 
would  be  as  we  were  on  earth,  love  as  we  did  this 
year,  only  fuller,  quicker,  deeper  than  ever,  with  a 
purer  passion  and  a  wiser  worship.  Only  in  the 
meantime,  whilst  my  body  is  hid  from  him  and 
my  eyes  cannot  see  him,  let  my  trivial  toys  be  his 
till  the  morning  comes  when  nothing  will  matter 
because  all  is  spirit. 

"If  my  baby  lives  I  should  like  it  to  have  my 
pearls.  I  do  not  love  my  diamond  necklace,  so  I 
won't  leave  it  to  any  one. 

"I  would  like  Alfred  to  have  my  Bible.  It  has 
always  rather  worried  him  to  hold  because  it  is  so 
full  of  things;  but  if  I  know  I  am  dying,  I  will 
clean  it  out,  because,  I  suppose,  he  won't  like  to 
after.  I  think  I  am  fonder  of  it — not,  I  mean, 
because  it's  the  Bible — but  because  it's  such  a 
friend,  and  has  been  always  with  me,  chiefly  under 
my  pillow,  ever  since  I  had  it — than  of  anything 
I  possess,  and  I  used  to  read  it  a  great  deal  when 
I  was  much  better  than  I  am  now.  I  love  it  very 
much,  so,  Alfred,  you  must  keep  it  for  me. 

"Then  the  prayer  book  Francie*  gave  me  is 

*Lady   Horner,  of  M«lla. 

[101] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

what  I  love  next,  and  I  love  it  so  much  I  feel  I 
would  like  to  take  it  with  me.  Margot  wants  a 
prayer  book,  so  I  leave  it  to  her.  It  is  so  dirty  out- 
side, but  perhaps  it  would  be  a  pity  to  bind  it. 
Margot  is  to  have  my  darling  little  Daily  Light, 
too. 

**Then  Charty  is  to  have  my  paste  necklace  she 
likes,  and  any  two  prints  she  cares  to  have,  and  my 
little  tref euille  diamond  brooch — oh !  and  the  Hope 
she  painted  for  me.  I  love  it  very  much,  and  my 
amethyst  beads. 

"Little  Barbara  is  to  have  my  blue  watch,  and 
Tommy  my  watch — there  is  no  chain. 

"Then  Lucy  is  to  have  my  Frances  belt,  because 
a  long  time  ago  the  happiest  days  of  my  girlhood 
were  when  we  first  got  to  know  Francie,  and  she 
wore  that  belt  in  the  blue  days  at  St.  Moritz  when 
we  met  her  at  church  and  I  became  her  lover;  and 
I  want  Lucy  to  have  my  two  B lakes  and  the  dear 
little  Martin  Schongaun  Madonna  and  Baby — 
dear  little  potbellied  baby,  sucking  his  little  sacred 
thumb  in  a  garden  with  a  beautiful  wall  and  a 
little  pigeon-house  turret.  I  bought  it  myself, 
and  do  rather  think  it  was  clever  of  me — all  for 
a  pound. 

"And  Posie  is  to  have  my  little  diamond 
wreaths,  and  she  must  leave  them  to  Joan,*  and 
she  is  to  have  my  garnets  too,  because  she  used  to 
like  them,  and  my  Imitation  and  Marcus  Aurelius. 

"I  leave  Eddy  my  httle  diamond  necklace  for 
his  wife,  and  he  must  choose  a  book. 

♦Mj  niece,  Mrs.  Jamie  Lindsaj. 

[102] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"And  Frank  is  just  going  to  be  married,  so  I 
would  like  him  to  have  some  bit  of  my  furniture, 
and  his  wife  my  little  silver  clock. 

"I  leave  Jack  the  little  turquoise  ring  Graham 
gave  me.    He  must  have  it  made  into  a  stud. 

"Then  I  want  Lavinia*  to  have  my  bagful  of 
silver  dressing-things  Papa  gave  me,  and  the  little 
diamond  and  sapphire  bangle  I  am  so  fond  of; 
and  tell  her  what  a  joy  it  has  been  to  know  her, 
and  that  the  little  open  window  has  let  in  many 
sunrises  on  my  married  life.    She  will  understand. 

"Then  I  want  old  Lucyt  to  have  my  edition  of 
the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  that  dear  old  one,  and  my 
photograph  in  the  silver  frame  of  Alfred,  if  my 
baby  dies  too,  otherwise  it  is  to  belong  to  him  (or 
her).  Lucy  was  Alfred's  little  proxy-mother,  and 
she  deserves  him.  He  sent  the  photograph  to  me 
the  first  week  we  were  engaged,  and  I  have  carried 
it  about  ever  since.  I  don't  think  it  very  good.  It 
always  frightened  me  a  little;  it  is  so  stern  and 
just,  and  the  'just  man'  has  never  been  a  hero  of 
mine.  I  love  Alfred  when  he  is  what  he  is  to  me, 
and  I  don't  feel  that  is  just,  but  generous. 

"Then  I  want  Edward|  to  have  the  Days  of 
Creation,  and  Charles  §  to  have  my  first  editions  of 
Shelley,  and  ArthurU  my  first  edition  of  Beaumont 

*Lavinia  Talbot  is  wife  of  the  present  Bishop  of  Winchester. 

fLady  Frederick  Cavendish,  whose  husband  was  murdered  in 
Ireland. 

t  The  late  Head  Master  of  Eton. 

§  The  present  Lord  Cobham,  Alfred's  eldest  brother. 

HThe  late  Hon.  Arthur  Temple  Lyttelton,  Bishop  of  South- 
Rmpton, 

[108] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

and  Fletcher;  and  Kathleen*  is  to  have  my  little 
silver  crucifix  that  opens,  and  Alfred  must  put  in 
a  little  bit  of  my  hair,  and  Kathleen  must  keep  it 
for  my  sake — I  loved  her  from  the  first. 

"I  want  Alfred  to  give  my  godchild,  Cicely 
Horner,t  the  bird-brooch  Burne  Jones  designed, 
and  the  Sintram  Arthur  t  gave  me.  I  leave  my  best 
friend,  Frances,  my  grey  enamel  and  diamond 
bracelet,  my  first  edition  of  Wilhelm  Meister,  with 
the  music  folded  up  in  it,  and  my  Burne  Jones 
*  'spression'  drawings.  Tell  her  I  leave  a  great 
deal  of  my  life  with  her,  and  that  I  never  can  cease 
to  be  very  near  her. 

"I  leave  Mary  Elcho§  my  Chippendale  cradle. 
She  must  not  think  it  bad  luck.  I  suppose  some  one 
else  possessed  it  once,  and,  after  all,  it  isn't  as  if  I 
died  in  it!  She  gave  me  the  lovely  hangings,  and 
I  think  she  will  love  it  a  little  for  my  sake,  because 
I  always  loved  cradles  and  all  cradled  things;  and 
I  leave  her  my  diamond  and  red  enamel  crescent 
Arthur  gave  me.  She  must  wear  it  because  two  of 
her  dear  friends  are  in  it,  as  it  were.  And  I  would 
like  her  to  have  oh!  such  a  blessed  life,  because  I 
think  her  character  is  so  full  of  blessed  things  and 
symbols.     .     .     . 

"I  leave  Arthur  Balfour — Alfred's  and  my 
dear,  deeply  loved  friend,  who  has  given  me  so 
many  happy  hours  since  I  married,  and  whose 
sympathy,  understanding,  and  companionship  in 

•The  late  Hon.  Mrs.  Arthur  Lyttelton. 
f  The  present   Hon.   Mrs.   George   Lambton. 
i  ITie   Right   Hon.   Arthur   Balfour. 
S  The  present  Countess  of  Wcmyss. 

[104] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

the  deep  sense  of  the  word  has  never  been  withheld 
from  me  when  I  have  sought  it,  which  has  not  been 
seldom  this  year  of  my  blessed  Vita  Nuova — I 
leave  him  my  Johnson.  He  taught  me  to  love  that 
wisest  of  men — and  I  have  much  to  be  grateful  for 
in  this.  I  leave  him,  too,  my  little  ugly  Shelley — 
much  read,  but  not  in  any  way  beautiful;  if  he 
marries  I  should  like  him  to  give  his  wife  my  little 
red  enamel  harp — I  shall  never  see  her  if  I  die  now, 
but  I  have  so  often  created  her  in  the  Islands  of 
my  imagination — and  as  a  Queen  has  she  reigned 
there,  so  that  I  feel  in  the  spirit  we  are  in  some 
measure  related  by  some  mystic  tie." 

Out  of  the  many  letters  Alfred  received,  this  is 
the  one  I  liked  best : 

Hawarden  Castle^ 

April  27th,  1886. 
My  dear  Alfred, 

It  is  a  daring  and  perhaps  a  selfish  thing  to 
speak  to  you  at  a  moment  when  your  mind  and 
heart  are  a  sanctuary  in  which  God  is  speaking  to 
you  in  tones  even  more  than  usually  penetrating 
and  solemn.  Certainly  it  pertains  to  few  to  be 
chosen  to  receive  such  lessons  as  are  being  taught 
you.  If  the  wonderful  trials  of  Apostles,  Saints 
and  Martyrs  have  all  meant  a  love  in  like  propor- 
tion wonderful,  then,  at  this  early  period  of  your 
life,  your  lot  has  something  in  common  with  theirs, 
and  you  will  bear  upon  you  life -long  marks  of  a 
great  and  peculiar  dispensation  which  may  and 
should  lift  you  very  high.    Certainly  you  two  who 

[105] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

are  still  one  were  the  persons  whom  in  all  the  vast 
circuit  of  London  life  those  near  you  would  have 
pointed  to  as  exhibiting  more  than  any  others  the 
promise  and  the  profit  of  both  worlds.  The  call 
upon  you  for  thanksgiving  seemed  greater  than  on 
any  one — you  will  not  deem  it  lessened  now.  How 
eminently  true  it  is  of  her  that  in  living  a  short 
she  fulfilled  a  long  time.  If  Life  is  measured  by 
intensity,  hers  was  a  very  long  life — and  yet  with 
that  rich  development  of  mental  gifts,  purity  and 
singleness  made  her  one  of  the  little  children  of 
whom  and  of  whose  hke  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven. 
Bold  would  it  indeed  be  to  say  such  a  being  died 
prematurely.  All  through  your  life,  however  it  be 
prolonged,  what  a  precious  possession  to  you  she 
will  be.  But  in  giving  her  to  your  bodily  eye  and 
in  taking  her  away  the  Almighty  has  specially  set 
His  seal  upon  you.  To  Peace  and  to  God's  gracious 
mercy  let  us  heartily,  yes,  cheerfully,  commend  her. 
Will  you  let  Sir  Charles  and  Lady  Tennant  and  all 
her  people  know  how  we  feel  with  and  for  them? 

Ever  your  affec. 

W.  E.  Gladstone. 

Matthew  Arnold  sent  me  this  poem  because 
Jowett  told  him  I  said  it  might  have  been  written 
for  Laura: 

REQUIESCAT 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses, 
And  never  a  spray  of  yewl 
In  quiet  she  reposes; 
Ah,  would  that  I  did  tool 

[106] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Her  mirth  the  world  required ; 
She  bathed  it  in  smiles  of  glee. 
But  her  heart  was  tired,  tired. 
And  now  they  let  her  be. 

Her  life  was  turning,  turning, 
In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound, 
But  for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning. 
And  now  peace  laps  her  round. 

Her  cabin'd,  ample  spirit. 

It  fluttered  and  fail'd  for  breath. 

To-night  it  doth  inherit 

The  vasty  hall  of  death. 


[107] 


CHAPTER  III 

SLUMMING    IN     LONDON;    ADVENTUEE    IN     WHITE- 
CHAPEL;  BRAWL  IN  A  saloon;  OUTINGS  WITH 

working  girls — margot  meets  the  princess 

of    wales gossip    over    friendship    with 

prince  of  wales — lady  randolph  church- 
ill's  ball — margot's  first  hunt;  eccen- 
tric DUKE  OF  BEAUFORT;  FALLS  IN  LOVE  AT 
SEVENTEEN ;  COMMANDEERS  A  HORSE 

AFTER  Laura's  death  I  spent  most  of  my  time 
in  the  East  End  of  London.  One  day,  when 
I  was  walking  in  the  slums  of  Whitechapel,  I  saw  a 
large  factory  and  girls  of  all  ages  pouring  in  and 
out  of  it.  Seeing  the  name  "Cliffords"  on  the  door, 
I  walked  in  and  asked  a  workman  to  show  me  his 
employer's  private  room.  He  indicated  with  his 
finger  where  it  was  and  I  knocked  and  went  in. 
Mr.  Cliffords,  the  owner  of  the  factory,  had  a  large 
red  face  and  was  sitting  in  a  bare,  squalid  room, 
on  a  hard  chair,  in  front  of  his  writing-table.  He 
glanced  at  me  as  I  shut  the  door,  but  did  not  stop 
writing.  I  asked  him  if  I  might  visit  his  factory 
[108] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

once  or  twice  a  week  and  talk  to  the  work-girls. 
At  this  he  put  his  pen  down  and  said : 

"Now,  miss,  what  good  do  you  suppose  you  will 
do  here  with  my  girls  ?" 

Margot:  "It  is  not  exactly  that,  I  am  not  sure 
I  can  do  any  one  any  good,  but  do  you  think  I  could 
do  your  girls  any  harm?" 

Cliffords:  "Most  certainly  you  could  and, 
what  is  more,  you  will/' 

Margot:  "How?" 

Cliffords:  "Why,  bless  my  soul!  You'll  keep 
them  all  jawing  and  make  them  late  for  their 
work!  As  it  is,  they  don't  do  overmuch.  Do  you 
think  my  girls  are  wicked  and  that  you  are  going 
to  make  them  good  and  happy  and  save  them  and 
all  that  kind  of  thing?" 

Margot  :  "Not  at  all ;  I  was  not  thinking  of  them, 
I  am  so  very  unhappy  myself." 

Cliffords  (rather  moved  and  looking  at  me  with 
curiosity) :  "Oh,  that's  quite  another  matter!  If 
you've  come  here  to  ask  me  a  favour,  I  might  con- 
sider it." 

Margot  {humbly) :  "That  is  just  what  I  have 
come  for.  I  swear  I  would  only  be  with  your  girls 
in  the  dinner  interval,  but  if  by  accident  I  arrive 

[109] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

at  the  wrong  time  I  will  see  that  they  do  not  stop 
their  work.  It  is  far  more  likely  that  they  won't 
listen  to  me  at  all  than  that  they  will  stop  working 
to  hear  what  I  have  to  say." 

Cliffords:  "Maybe!" 

So  it  was  fixed  up.  He  shook  me  by  the  hand, 
never  asked  my  name  and  I  visited  his  factory 
three  days  a  week  for  eight  years  when  I  was  in 
London  (till  I  married,  in  1894). 

The  East  End  of  London  was  not  a  new  expe- 
rience to  me.  Laura  and  I  had  started  a  creche  at 
Wapping  the  year  I  came  out ;  and  in  following  up 
the  cases  of  deserving  beggars  I  had  come  across 
a  variety  of  slums.  I  have  derived  as  much  interest 
and  more  benefit  from  visiting  the  poor  than  the 
rich  and  I  get  on  better  with  them.  What  was  new 
to  me  in  Whitechapel  was  the  head  of  the  factory. 

Mr.  Cliffords  was  what  the  servants  describe  as 
"a  man  who  keeps  himself  to  himself,"  gruff,  harsh, 
straight  and  clever.  He  hated  all  his  girls  and  no 
one  would  have  supposed,  had  they  seen  us  to- 
gether, that  he  liked  me ;  but,  after  I  had  observed 
him  blocking  the  light  in  the  doorway  of  the  room 
when  I  was  speaking,  I  knew  that  I  should  get  on 
with  him. 
[110] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  first  day  I  went  into  the  bam  of  a  place 
where  the  boxes  were  made,  I  was  greeted  by 
a  smell  of  glue  and  perspiration  and  a  roar  of 
wheels  on  the  cobblestones  in  the  yard.  Forty  or 
fifty  women,  varying  in  age  from  sixteen  to  sixty, 
were  measuring,  cutting  and  glueing  cardboard 
and  paper  together;  not  one  of  them  looked  up 
from  her  work  as  I  came  in. 

I  climbed  upon  a  hoarding,  and  kneeling  down, 
pinned  a  photograph  of  Laura  on  a  space  of  the 
wall.  This  attracted  the  attention  of  an  elderly 
woman  who  turned  to  her  companions  and  said : 

"Come  and  have  a  look  at  this,  girls!  why,  it's  to 
the  life!" 

Seeing  some  of  the  girls  leave  their  work  and 
remembering  my  promise  to  Cliffords,  I  jumped 
up  and  told  them  that  in  ten  minutes'  time  they 
would  be  having  their  dinners  and  then  I  would 
like  to  speak  to  them,  but  that  until  then  they  must 
not  stop  their  work.  I  was  much  relieved  to  see 
them  obey  me.  Some  of  them  kept  sandwiches  in 
dirty  paper  bags  which  they  placed  on  the  floor 
with  their  hats,  but  when  the  ten  minutes  were 
over  I  was  disappointed  to  see  nearly  all  of  them 
disappear.    I  asked  where  they  had  gone  to  and 

[111] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

was  told  that  they  either  joined  the  men  packers 
or  went  to  the  public-house  round  the  corner. 

The  girls  who  brought  sandwiches  and  stayed 
behind  liked  my  visits  and  gradually  became  my 
friends.  One  of  them — Phoebe  Whitman  by  name 
— was  beautiful  and  had  more  charm  than  the 
others  for  me;  I  asked  her  one  day  if  she  would 
take  me  with  her  to  the  public-house  where  she 
always  lunched,  as  I  had  brought  my  food  with 
me  in  a  bag  and  did  not  suppose  the  public-house 
people  would  mind  my  eating  it  there  with  a  glass 
of  beer.  This  request  of  mine  distressed  the  girls 
who  were  my  friends.  They  thought  it  a  terrible 
idea  that  I  should  go  among  drunkards,  but  I  told 
them  I  had  brought  a  book  with  me  which  they 
could  look  at  and  read  out  loud  to  each  other  while 
I  was  away — at  which  they  nodded  gravely — and 
I  went  off  with  my  beautiful  cockney. 

The  "Peggy  Bedford"  was  in  the  lowest  quarter 
of  Whitechapel  and  crowded  daily  with  sullen  and 
sad-looking  people.  It  was  hot,  smelly  and 
draughty.  When  we  went  in  I  observed  that 
Phoebe  was  a  favourite;  she  waved  her  hand  gaily 
here  and  there  and  ordered  herself  a  glass  of  bitter. 
The  men  who  had  been  hanging  about  outside  and 
[112] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

in  different  comers  of  the  room  joined  up  to  the 
counter  on  her  arrival  and  I  heard  a  lot  of  chaff 
going  on  while  she  tossed  her  pretty  head  and 
picked  at  potted  shrimps.  The  room  was  too 
crowded  for  any  one  to  notice  me ;  and  I  sat  quietly 
in  a  corner  eating  my  sandwiches  and  smoking  my 
cigarette.  The  frosted-glass  double  doors  swung 
to  and  fro  and  the  shrill  voices  of  children  asking 
for  drinks  and  carrying  them  away  in  their  mugs 
made  me  feel  profoundly  unhappy.  I  followed 
one  little  girl  through  the  doors  out  into  the  street 
and  saw  her  give  the  mug  to  a  cabman  and  run  off 
delighted  with  his  tip.  When  I  returned  I  was 
deafened  by  a  babel  of  voices;  there  was  a  row 
going  on:  one  of  the  men,  drunk  but  good- 
tempered,  was  trying  to  take  the  flower  out  of 
Phoebe's  hat.  Provoked  by  this,  a  young  man 
began  jostling  him,  at  which  all  the  others  pressed 
forward ;  the  barman  shouted  ineffectually  to  them 
to  stop ;  they  merely  cursed  him  and  said  that  they 
were  backing  Phoebe.  A  woman,  more  drunk  than 
the  others,  swore  at  being  disturbed  and  said  that 
Phoebe  was  a  blasted  something  that  I  could  not 
understand.  Suddenly  I  saw  her  hitting  out  like  a 
prize-fighter;  and  the  men  formed  a  ring  round 

[113] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

them.  I  jumped  up,  seized  an  under- fed,  blear- 
eyed  being  who  was  nearest  to  me  and  flung  him 
out  of  my  way.  Rage  and  disgust  inspired  me  with 
great  physical  strength ;  but  I  was  prevented  from 
breaking  through  the  ring  by  a  man  seizing  my 
arm  and  saying: 

"Let  be  or  her  man  will  give  you  a  damned 
thrashing  1" 

Not  knowing  which  of  the  women  he  was  allud- 
ing to,  I  dipped  down  and,  dodging  the  crowd, 
broke  through  the  ring  and  flung  myself  upon 
Phoebe;  my  one  fear  was  that  she  would  be  too 
late  for  her  work  and  that  the  promise  I  had  made 
to  Cliffords  would  be  broken. 

Women  fight  very  awkwardly  and  I  was  battered 
about  between  the  two.  I  turned  and  cursed  the 
men  standing  round  for  laughing  and  doing  noth- 
ing and,  before  I  could  separate  the  combatants, 
I  had  given  and  received  heavy  blows;  but  unex- 
pected help  came  from  a  Cliffords  packer  who 
happened  to  look  in.  We  extricated  ourselves  as 
well  as  we  could  and  ran  back  to  the  factory.  I 
made  Phoebe  apologise  to  the  chief  for  being  late 
and,  feeling  stiff  all  over,  returned  home  to  Gros- 
venor  Square. 
[114] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Cliffords,  who  was  an  expert  boxer,  invited  me 
into  his  room  on  my  next  visit  to  tell  him  the  whole 
story  and  my  shares  went  up. 

By  the  end  of  July  all  the  girls — about  fifty-two 
— stayed  with  me  after  their  work  and  none  of 
them  went  to  the  "Peggy  Bedford." 

The  Whitechapel  murders  took  place  close  to  the 
factory  about  that  time,  and  the  girls  and  I  visited 
what  the  journalists  call  "the  scene  of  the  tragedy." 
It  was  strange  watching  crowds  of  people  collected 
daily  to  see  nothing  but  an  archway. 

I  took  my  girls  for  an  annual  treat  to  the  country 
every  summer,  starting  at  eight  in  the  morning  and 
getting  back  to  London  at  midnight.  We  drove  in 
three  large  wagonettes  behind  four  horses,  accom- 
panied by  a  brass  band.  On  one  occasion  I  was 
asked  if  the  day  could  be  spent  at  Caterham,  be- 
cause there  ^were  barracks  there.  I  thought  it  a 
dreary  place  and  strayed  away  by  myself,  but 
Phoebe  and  her  friends  enjoyed  glueing  their  noses 
to  the  rails  and  watching  the  soldiers  drill.  I  do 
not  know  how  the  controversy  arose,  but  when  I 
joined  them  I  heard  Phoebe  shout  through  the 
railings  that  some  one  was  a  "bloody  fish!"  I 
warned  her  that  I  should  leave  Cliffords  for  ever, 

riis] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

if  she  went  on  provoking  rows  and  using  such 
violent  language,  and  this  threat  upset  her;  for  a 
short  time  she  was  on  her  best  behaviour,  but  I 
confess  I  find  the  poor  just  as  uninfluenceable  and 
ungrateful  as  the  rich,  and  I  often  wonder  what 
became  of  Phoebe  Whitman. 

At  the  end  of  July  I  told  the  girls  that  I  had  to 
leave  them,  as  I  was  going  back  to  my  home  in 
Scotland. 

Phoebe:  "You  don't  know,  lady,  how  much  we 
all  feels  for  you  having  to  live  in  the  country.  Why, 
when  you  pointed  out  to  us  on  the  picnic-day  that 
kind  of  a  tower-place,  with  them  walls  and  dark 
trees,  and  said  it  reminded  you  of  your  home, 
we  just  looked  at  each  other  1  'Well,  I  never!'  sez 
I;  and  we  all  shuddered!" 

None  of  the  girls  knew  what  my  name  was  or 
where  I  lived  till  they  read  about  me  in  the  picture- 
papers,  eight  years  later  at  the  time  of  my  marriage. 

When  I  was  not  in  the  East-end  of  London,  I 
wandered  about  looking  at  the  shop -windows  in  the 
West.  One  day  I  was  admiring  a  photograph  of 
my  sister  Charty  in  the  window  of  Macmichael's, 
when  a  footman  touched  his  hat  and  asked  me  if 
[116] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  would  speak  to  "her  Grace"  in  the  carriage.  I 
turned  round  and  saw  the  Duchess  of  Manchester* ; 
as  I  had  never  spoken  to  her  in  my  life,  I  wondered 
what  she  could  possibly  want  me  for.  After  shak- 
ing hands,  she  said: 

"Jump  in,  dear  child!  I  can't  bear  to  see  you 
look  so  sad.  Jump  in  and  I'll  take  you  for  a  drive 
and  you  can  come  back  to  tea  with  me." 

I  got  into  the  carriage  and  we  drove  round  Hyde 
Park,  after  which  I  followed  her  upstairs  to  her 
boudoir  in  Great  Stanhope  Street.  In  the  middle 
of  tea  Queen  Alexandra — then  Princess  of  Wales 
■ — came  in  to  see  the  Duchess.  She  ran  in  unan- 
nounced and  kissed  her  hostess. 

My  heart  beat  when  I  looked  at  her.  She  had 
more  real  beauty,  both  of  line  and  expression,  and 
more  dignity  than  any  one  I  had  ever  seen;  and 
I  can  never  forget  that  first  meeting. 

These  were  the  days  of  the  great  beauties.  Lon- 
don worshipped  beauty  like  the  Greeks.  Photo- 
graphs of  the  Princess  of  Wales,  Mrs.  Langtry, 
Mrs.  Cornwallis  West,  Mrs.  Wheeler  and  Lady 
Dudley  f  collected  crowds  in  front  of  the  shop  win- 


*Afterwards  the  late  Duchess  of  DevoiLshire. 
f  Georgiana,  Countess  of  Dudley. 


[IIT] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

dows.  I  have  seen  great  and  conventional  ladies 
like  old  Lady  Cadogan  and  others  standing  on  iron 
chairs  in  the  Park  to  see  Mrs,  Langtry  walk  past ; 
and  wherever  Georgiana  Lady  Dudley  drove  there 
were  crowds  round  her  carriage  when  it  pulled  up, 
to  see  this  vision  of  beauty,  holding  a  large  holland 
umbrella  over  the  head  of  her  lifeless  husband. 

Groups  of  beauties  like  the  Moncrieffes,  Gra- 
hams, Conynghams,  de  Moleynses,  Lady  Mary 
Mills,  Lady  Randolph  Churchill,  Mrs.  Arthur  Sas- 
soon.  Lady  Dalhousie,  Lady  March,  Lady  Lon- 
donderry and  Lady  de  Grey  were  to  be  seen  in 
the  salons  of  the  'eighties.  There  is  nothing  at 
all  like  this  in  London  to-day  and  I  doubt  if  there 
is  any  one  now  with  enough  beauty  or  temperament 
to  provoke  a  fight  in  Rotten  Row  between  gentle- 
men in  high  society :  an  incident  of  my  youth  which 
I  was  privileged  to  witness  and  which  caused  a 
profound  sensation. 

Queen  Alexandra  had  a  more  perfect  face  than 
any  of  those  I  have  mentioned;  it  is  visible  even 
now,  because  the  oval  is  still  there,  the  frownless 
brows,  the  carriage  and,  above  all,  the  grace  both  of 
movement  and  of  gesture  which  made  her  the  idol 
of  her  people. 
[118] 


ra^pa^m. 


[119] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

London  society  is  neither  better  nor  worse  than 
it  was  in  the  'eighties;  there  is  less  talent  and  less 
intellectual  ambition  and  much  less  religion;  but 
where  all  the  beauty  has  gone  to  I  cannot  think! 

When  the  Princess  of  Wales  walked  into  the 
Duchess  of  Manchester's  boudoir  that  afternoon, 
I  got  up  to  go  away,  but  the  Duchess  presented  me 
to  her  and  they  asked  me  to  stay  and  have  tea, 
which  I  was  delighted  to  do.  I  sat  watching  her, 
with  my  teacup  in  my  hand,  thrilled  with  admira- 
tion. 

Queen  Alexandra's  total  absence  of  egotism  and 
the  warmth  of  her  manner,  prompted  not  by  con- 
sideration, but  by  sincerity,  her  gaiety  of  heart  and 
refinement — ^rarely  to  be  seen  in  royal  people- 
inspired  me  with  a  love  for  her  that  day  from 
which  I  have  never  departed. 

I  had  been  presented  to  the  Prince  of  Wales — 
before  I  met  the  Princess — by  Lady  Dalhousie,  in 
the  Paddock  at  Ascot.  He  asked  me  if  I  would 
back  my  fancy  for  the  Wokingham  Stakes  and 
have  a  little  bet  with  him  on  the  race.  We  walked 
down  to  the  rails  and  .watched  the  horses  gallop 
past.  One  of  them  went  down  in  great  form;  I 
verified  him  by  his  colours  and  found  he  was  called 

[121] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Wokingham.  I  told  the  Prince  that  he  was  a 
sure  winner ;  but  out  of  so  many  entries  no  one  was 
more  surprised  than  I  was  when  my  horse  came 
romping  in.  I  was  given  a  gold  cigarette-case  and 
went  home  much  pleased. 

King  Edward  had  great  charm  and  personality 
and  enormous  prestige;  he  was  more  touchy  than 
King  George  and  fonder  of  pleasure.  He  and 
Queen  Alexandra,  before  they  succeeded,  were  the 
leaders  of  London  society ;  they  practically  dictated 
what  people  could  and  could  not  do;  every  woman 
wore  a  new  dress  when  she  dined  at  Marlborough 
House;  and  we  vied  with  each  other  in  trying  to 
please  him. 

Opinions  differ  as  to  the  precise  function  of 
royalty,  but  no  one  doubts  that  it  is  a  valuable 
and  necessary  part  of  our  Constitution.  Just  as 
the  Lord  Mayor  represents  commerce,  the  Prime 
Minister  the  Government,  and  the  Commons  the 
people,  the  King  represents  society.  Voltaire  said 
we  British  had  shown  true  genius  in  preventing  our 
kings  by  law  from  doing  anything  but  good.  This 
sounds  well,  but  we  all  know  that  laws  do  not 
prevent  men  from  doing  harm. 

The  two  kings  that  I  have  known  have  had  in  a 
[122] 


-  J&  f  n » t. 


[OVER] 


[123] 


[124] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

high  degree  both  physical  and  moral  courage  and 
have  shown  a  sense  of  duty  unparalleled  in  the 
Courts  of  Europe;  it  is  this  that  has  given  them 
their  stability;  and  added  to  this  their  simplicity  of 
nature  has  won  for  them  our  lasting  love. 

They  have  been  exceptionally  fortunate  in  their 
private  secretaries :  Lord  Knollys  and  Lord  Stam- 
fordham  are  liberal-minded  men  of  the  highest 
honour  and  discretion;  and  I  am  proud  to  call  them 
my  friends. 

Before  I  knew  the  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales, 
I  did  not  go  to  fashionable  balls,  but  after  that 
Ascot  I  was  asked  everywhere.  I  was  quite  uncon- 
scious of  it  at  the  time,  but  was  told  afterwards 
that  people  were  beginning  to  criticise  me;  one  or 
two  incidents  might  have  enlightened  me  had  I 
been  more  aware  of  myself. 

One  night,  when  I  was  dining  tSte-d-tete  with  my 
beloved  friend,  Godfrey  Webb,  in  his  flat  in  Vic- 
toria Street,  my  father  sent  the  brougham  for  me 
with  a  message  to  ask  if  I  would  accompany  him 
to  supper  at  Lord  and  Lady  Randolph  Churchill's, 
where  we  had  been  invited  to  meet  the  Prince  of 
Wales.  I  said  I  should  be  delighted  if  I  could  keep 
on  the  dress  that  I  was  wearing,  but  as  it  was  late 

[125] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

and  I  had  to  get  up  early  next  day  I  did  not  want 
to  change  my  clothes ;  he  said  he  supposed  my  dress 
would  be  quite  smart  enough,  so  we  drove  to  the 
Randolph  Churchills'  house  together. 

I  had  often  wanted  to  know  Lord  Randolph, 
but  it  was  only  a  few  days  before  the  supper  that 
I  had  had  the  good  fortune  to  sit  next  to  him  at 
dinner.  When  he  observed  that  he  had  been  put 
next  to  a  "miss,"  he  placed  his  left  elbow  firmly 
on  the  table  and  turned  his  back  upon  me  through 
several  courses.  I  could  not  but  admire  the  way 
he  appeared  to  eat  everything  with  one  hand.  I 
do  not  know  whether  it  was  the  lady  on  his  right 
or  what  it  was  that  prompted  him,  but  he  ultimately 
turned  round  and  asked  me  if  I  knew  any  politi- 
cians. I  told  him  that,  with  the  exception  of  him- 
self, I  knew  them  all  intimately.  This  surprised 
him,  and  after  discussing  Lord  Rosebery — ^to  whom 
he  was  devoted — ^he  said: 

"Do  you  know  Lord  Salisbury?" 

I  told  him  that  I  had  forgotten  his  name  in  my 
list,  but  that  I  would  like  above  everything  to  meet 
him;  at  which  he  remarked  that  I  was  welcome  to 
all  his  share  of  him,  adding: 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  him  for?" 
[126] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Maegot  :  "Because  I  think  he  is  amazingly  amus- 
ing and  a  very  fine  writer." 

Lord  Randolph  {muttering  something  I  could 
not  catch  about  Salisbury/  lying  dead  at  his  feet) : 
"I  wish  to  God  that  I  had  never  known  him  I" 

M argot:  "I  am  afraid  you  resigned  more  out  of 
temper  than  conviction,  Lord  Randolph." 

At  this  he  turned  completely  round  and,  gazing 
at  me,  said : 

"Confound  your  cheek!  What  do  you  know 
about  me  and  my  convictions?  I  hate  Salisbury  1 
He  jumped  at  my  resignation  like  a  dog  at  a  bone. 
The  Tories  are  ungrateful,  short-sighted  beasts.  I 
hope  you  are  a  Liberal?" 

I  informed  him  that  I  was  and  exactly  what  I 
thought  of  the  Tory  party;  and  we  talked  through 
the  rest  of  dinner.  Towards  the  end  of  our  con- 
versation he  asked  me  who  I  was.  I  told  him  that, 
after  his  manners  to  me  in  the  earlier  part  of  the 
evening,  it  was  perhaps  better  that  we  should  re- 
main strangers.  However,  after  a  little  chaff,  we 
made  friends  and  he  said  that  he  would  come  and 
see  me  in  Grosvenor  Square. 

On  the  night  of  the  supper-party,  I  was  wearing 
a  white  muslin  dress  with  transparent  chemise 

[127] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

sleeves,  a  fichu  and  a  long  skirt  with  a  Nattier  blue 
taffeta  sash.  I  had  taken  a  bunch  of  rose  carna- 
tions out  of  a  glass  and  pinned  them  into  my 
fichu  with  three  diamond  ducks  given  me  by  Lord 
Carmichael,  our  delightful  Peeblesshire  friend  and 
neighbour. 

On  my  arrival  at  the  Churchills',  I  observed  all 
the  fine  ladies  wearing  ball-dresses  off  the  shoulder 
and  their  tiaras.  This  made  me  very  conspicuous 
and  I  wished  profoundly  that  I  had  changed  into 
something  smarter  before  going  out. 

The  Prince  of  Wales  had  not  arrived  and,  as  our 
hostess  was  giving  orders  to  the  White  Hungarian 
Band,  my  father  and  I  had  to  walk  into  the  room 
alone. 

I  saw  several  of  the  ladies  eyeing  my  toilette, 
and  having  painfully  sharp  ears  I  heard  some  of 
their  remarks : 

"Do  look  at  Miss  Tennant!  She  is  in  her  night- 
gown!" 

"I  suppose  it  is  meant  to  be  'ye  olde  Englishe 
picturyl'  I  wonder  she  has  not  let  her  hair  down 
like  the  Juliets  at  the  Oakham  balls!" 

Another,  more  charitable,  said: 

"I  daresay  no  one  told  her  that  the  Prince  ot 
[128] 


h  ^h^  f^i  -   ^  fijf^  ^  ^  fD:;^ 


V^i^  (^^---  ^^"^ 


A.  CARICATURE  OF  LORD  RANDOLPH  CHURCHILL  ON  THE  OCCASION 

OF  HIS  TRIP  TO  SOUTH  AFRICA 


[129] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Wales  was  coming.  .  .  .  Poor  child  I  What 
a  shame!" 

And  finally  a  man  said: 

"There  is  nothing  so  odd  as  the  passion  some 
people  have  for  self-advertisement;  it  only  shows 
what  it  is  to  be  intellectual!" 

At  that  moment  our  hostess  came  up  to  us  with 
a  charming  accueil. 

The  first  time  I  saw  Lady  Randolph  was  at 
Punchestown  races,  in  1887,  where  I  went  with 
my  new  friends,  Mrs.  Bunbury,  Hatfield  Harter 
and  Peter  Flower.  I  was  standing  at  the  double 
when  I  observed  a  woman  next  to  me  in  a  Black 
Watch  tartan  skirt,  braided  coat  and  astrachan  hus- 
sar's cap.  She  had  a  forehead  like  a  panther's  and 
great  wild  eyes  that  looked  through  you ;  she  was  so 
arresting  that  I  followed  her  about  till  I  found 
some  one  who  could  tell  me  who  she  was. 

Had  Lady  Randolph  Churchill  been  like  her 
face,  she  could  have  governed  the  world. 

My  father  and  I  were  much  relieved  at  her  greet- 
ing ;  and  while  we  were  talking  the  Prince  of  Wales 
arrived.  The  ladies  fell  into  position,  ceased  chat- 
tering and  made  subterranean  curtsies.  He  came 
straight  up  to  me  and  told  me  I  was  to  sit  on  th% 

[131] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

other  side  of  him  at  supper.  I  said,  hanging  my 
head  with  becoming  modesty  and  in  a  loud  voice: 

"Oh  no.  Sir,  I  am  not  dressed  at  all  for  the  part! 
I  had  better  slip  away,  I  had  no  notion  this  was  go- 
ing to  be  such  a  smart  party.  ...  I  expect 
some  of  the  ladies  here  think  I  have  insulted  them 
by  coming  in  my  night-gown!" 

I  saw  every  one  straining  to  hear  what  the 
Prince's  answer  would  be,  but  I  took  good  care 
that  we  should  move  out  of  earshot.  At  that 
moment  Lord  Hartington*  came  up  and  told  me 
I  was  to  go  in  to  supper  with  him.  More  than  ever 
I  wished  I  had  changed  my  dress,  for  now  every 
one  was  looking  at  me  with  even  greater  curiosity 
than  hostility. 

The  supper  was  gay  and  I  had  remarkable  talks 
which  laid  the  foundation  of  my  friendship  both 
with  King  Edward  and  the  Duke  of  Devonshire. 
The  Prince  told  me  he  had  had  a  dull  youth,  as 
Queen  Victoria  could  not  get  over  the  Prince 
Consort's  death  and  kept  up  an  exaggerated 
mourning.  He  said  he  hoped  that  when  I  met  his 
mother  I  should  not  be  afraid  of  her,  adding,  with 
a  charming  smile,  that  with  the  exception  of  John 

*The  late  Duke  of  Devonshire. 

[182] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Brown  everybody  was.  I  assured  him  with  perfect 
candour  that  I  was  afraid  of  no  one.  He  was  much 
amused  when  I  told  him  that  before  he  had  arrived 
that  evening  some  of  the  ladies  had  whispered  that 
I  was  in  my  night-gown  and  I  hope  he  did  not  think 
me  lacking  in  courtesy  because  I  had  not  put  on  a 
ball-dress.  He  assured  me  that  on  the  contrary 
he  admired  my  frock  very  much  and  thought  I 
looked  like  an  old  picture.  This  remark  made  me 
see  uncomfortable  visions  of  the  Oakham  ball  and 
he  did  not  dispel  them  by  adding: 

"You  are  so  original!  You  must  dance  the 
cotillion  with  me." 

I  told  him  that  I  could  not  possibly  stay,  it  would 
bore  my  father  stiff,  as  he  hated  sitting  up  late ;  also 
I  was  not  dressed  for  dancing  and  had  no  idea 
there  was  going  to  be  a  ball.  When  supper  was 
over,  I  made  my  best  curtsy  and,  after  presenting 
my  father  to  the  Prince,  went  home  to  bed. 

Lord  Hartington  told  me  in  the  course  of  our 
conversation  at  supper  that  Lady  Grosvenor*  was 
by  far  the  most  dangerous  syren  in  London  and 
that  he  would  not  answer  for  any  man  keeping  his 

*The  Countess  of  Grosvenor. 

[188] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

head  or  his  heart  when  with  her,  to  which  I  entirely 
agreed. 

When  the  London  season  came  to  an  end  we  all 
went  up  to  Glen. 

•  •••••* 

Here  I  must  retrace  my  steps. 

In  the  winter  of  1880  I  went  to  stay  with  my 
sister,  Lucy  Graham  Smith,  in  Wiltshire. 

I  was  going  out  hunting  for  the  first  time,  never 
having  seen  a  fox,  a  hound  or  a  fence  in  my  life; 
my  heart  beat  as  my  sisters  superintending  my 
toilette  put  the  last  hair-pin  into  a  crinkly  knot  of 
hair;  I  pulled  on  my  top-boots  and,  running  down 
to  the  front  door,  found  Ribblesdale,  who  was 
mounting  me,  waiting  to  drive  me  to  the  meet. 
Hounds  met  at  Christian  Malford  station. 

Not  knowing  that  with  the  Duke  of  Beaufort's 
hounds  every  one  wore  blue  and  buff,  I  was  disap- 
pointed at  the  appearance  of  the  field.  No  one 
has  ever  suggested  that  a  touch  of  navy  blue  im- 
proves a  landscape;  and,  although  I  had  never  been 
out  hunting  before,  I  had  looked  forward  to  seeing 
scarlet  coats. 

We  moved  off,  jostling  each  other  as  thick  as  sar- 
dines, to  draw  the  nearest  cover.  My  mount  was 
[184] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

peacocking  on  the  grass  when  suddenly  we  heard 
a  "Halloa!"  and  the  whole  field  went  hammering 
like  John  Gilpin  down  the  hard  high  road. 

Plunging  through  a  gap,  I  dashed  into  the  open 
country.  Storm  flung  herself  up  to  the  stars  over 
the  first  fence  and  I  found  myself  seated  on  the 
wettest  of  wet  ground,  angry  but  unhurt;  all  the 
stragglers — ^more  especially  the  funkers — agree- 
ably diverted  from  pursuing  the  hunt,  galloped  off 
to  catch  my  horse.  I  walked  to  a  cottage;  and 
nearly  an  hour  afterwards  Storm  was  returned  to 
me. 

After  this  contretemps  my  mount  was  more 
amenable  and  I  determined  that  nothing  should 
unseat  me  again.  Not  being  hurt  by  a  fall  gives 
one  a  sense  of  exhilaration  and  I  felt  ready  to  face 
an  arm  of  the  sea. 

The  scattered  field  were  moving  aimlessly  about, 
some  looking  for  their  second  horses,  some  eating 
an  early  sandwich,  some  in  groups  laughing  and 
smoking  and  no  one  knowing  anything  about  the 
hounds;  I  was  a  little  away  from  the  others  and 
wondering — like  all  amateurs — ^why  we  were  wast- 
ing so  much  time,  when  a  fine  old  gentleman  on  a 

[135] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

huge  horse  came  up  to  me  and  said,  with  a  sweet 
smile: 

"Do  you  always  whistle  out  hunting?" 

Margot:  "I  didn't  know  I  was  whistling.  .  .  . 
IVe  never  hunted  before." 

Stranger:  "Is  this  really  the  first  time  you've 
ever  been  out  with  hounds?" 

Margot:  "Yes,  it  is." 

Stranger:  "How  wonderfully  you  ride!  But  I 
am  sorry  to  see  you  have  taken  a  toss." 

Margot:  "I  fell  off  at  the  first  fence,  for  though 
IVe  ridden  all  my  life  I've  never  jumped  before." 

Stranger:  "Were  you  frightened  when  you 
fell?" 

Margot:  "No,  my  horse  was.  .  .  ." 

Stranger:  "Would  you  like  to  wear  the  blue 
and  buff?" 

Margot:  "It's  pretty  for  women,  but  I  don't 
think  it  looks  sporting  for  men,  though  I  see  you 
wear  it;  but  in  any  case  I  could  not  get  the  blue 
habit." 

Stranger:  "Why  not?" 

Margot:  "Because  the  old  Duke  of  Beaufort 
only  gives  it  to  women  who  own  coverts;  I 
[136] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

am  told  he  hates  people  who  go  hard  and  after  to- 
day I  mean  to  ride  like  the  devil." 

Stranger:  "Oh,  do  you?  But  is  the  *old  Duke,' 
as  you  call  him,  so  severe?" 

Margot:  "I've  no  idea;  I've  never  seen  him  or 
any  other  duke!" 

Stranger:  "If  I  told  you  I  could  get  you  the 
blue  habit,  what  would  you  say?" 

Margot  {with  a  patronising  smile) :  "I'm  afraid 
I  should  say  you  were  running  hares  1" 

Stranger:  "You  would  have  to  wear  a  top-hat, 
you  know,  and  you  would  not  like  that!  But,  if 
you  are  going  to  ride  like  the  devil,  it  might  save 
your  neck ;  and  in  any  case  it  would  keep  your  hair 
tidy." 

Margot  {anwicmsly  pushing  back  her  stray 
curls) :  "Why,  is  my  hair  very  untidy?  It  is  the 
first  time  it  has  ever  been  up;  and,  when  I  was 
'thrown  from  my  horse,'  as  the  papers  call  it,  all 
the  hair-pins  got  loose." 

Stranger:  "It  doesn't  matter  with  your  hair;  it 
is  so  pretty  I  think  I  shall  call  you  Miss  Fluffy! 
By  the  bye,  what  is  your  name?" 

When  I  told  him  he  was  much  surprised: 

[137] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

"Oh,  then  you  are  a  sister-in-law  of  the  Ances- 
tor's, are  you?" 

This  was  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  Ribblesdale 
called  "the  Ancestor";  and  as  I  did  not  know  what 
he  meant,  I  said: 

"And  who  are  you?" 

To  which  he  replied: 

"I  am  the  Duke  of  Beaufort  and  I  am  not  run- 
ning hares  this  time.  I  will  give  you  the  blue  habit, 
but  you  know  you  will  have  to  wear  a  top-hat." 

Margot:  "Good  gracious!  I  hope  I've  said  noth- 
ing to  offend  you?  Do  you  always  do  this  sort  of 
thing  when  you  meet  any  one  like  me  for  the  first 
time?" 

Duke  of  Beaufort  {with  a  smile,  lifting  his 
hat) :  "Just  as  it  is  the  first  time  you  have  ever 
hunted,  so  it  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  met  any 
one  like  you." 

On  the  third  day  with  the  Beaufort  hounds,  my 
horse  fell  heavily  in  a  ditch  with  me  and,  getting 
tip,  galloped  away.  I  was  picked  up  by  a  good- 
looking  man,  who  took  me  into  his  house,  gave  me 
tea  and  drove  me  back  in  his  brougham  to  Easton 
Grey;  I  fell  passionately  in  love  with  him.  He 
[188] 


/{cj^k  A^<^^ , 


/ 


JS. 


f^ 


f". 


THE  DUKE  OF  BEAUFORT,  MASTER   OF  THE 
BEAUFORT  HUNT 


DR.  BENJAMIN  JOWETT,  THE   FAMOUH 
or  BAI.MOL 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

owned  a  horse  called  Lardy  Dardy,  on  which  he 
mounted  me. 

Charty  and  the  others  chaffed  me  much  about  my 
new  friend,  saying  that  my  father  would  never 
approve  of  a  Tory  and  that  it  was  lucky  he  was 
married. 

I  replied,  much  nettled,  that  I  did  not  want  to 
marry  any  one  and  that,  though  he  was  a  Tory,  he 
was  not  at  all  stupid  and  would  probably  get  into 
the  Cabinet. 

This  was  my  first  shrewd  political  prophecy,  for 
he  is  in  the  Cabinet  now. 

I  cannot  look  at  him  without  remembering  that 
he  was  the  first  man  I  was  ever  in  love  with,  and 
that,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  I  said  he  would  be 
in  the  Cabinet  in  spite  of  his  being  a  Tory. 

For  pure  unalloyed  happiness  those  days  at 
Easton  Grey  were  undoubtedly  the  most  perfect 
of  my  life.  Lucy's  sweetness  to  me,  the  beauty  of 
the  place,  the  wild  excitement  of  riding  over  fences 
and  the  perfect  certainty  I  had  that  I  would  ride 
better  than  any  one  in  the  whole  world  gave  me 
an  insolent  confidence  which  no  earthquake  could 
have  shaken. 

Off  and  on,  I  felt  qualms  over  my  lack  of  educa- 

[139] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

tion;  and  when  I  was  falling  into  a  happy  sleep, 
dreaming  I  was  overriding  hounds,  echoes  of  "Pray, 
Mamma"  out  of  Mrs.  Markham,  or  early  punish- 
ments of  unfinished  poems  would  play  about  my 
bed. 

On  one  occasion  at  Easton  Grey,  unable  to  sleep 
for  love  of  life,  I  leant  out  of  the  window  into  the 
dark  to  see  if  it  was  thawing.  It  was  a  beautiful 
night,  warm  and  wet,  and  I  forgot  all  about  my 
education. 

The  next  day,  having  no  mount,  I  had  procured 
a  hireling  from  a  neighbouring  farmer,  but  to  my 
misery  the  horse  did  not  turn  up  at  the  meet ;  Mr. 
Golightly,  the  charming  parish  priest,  said  I  might 
drive  about  in  his  low  black  pony-carriage,  called 
in  those  days  a  Colorado  beetle,  but  hunting  on 
wheels  was  no  role  for  me  and  I  did  not  feel  like 
pursuing  the  field. 

My  heart  sank  as  I  saw  the  company  pass  me 
gaily  down  the  road,  preceded  by  the  hounds,  trot- 
ting with  a  staccato  step  and  their  noses  in  the  air. 

Just  as  I  was  turning  to  go  home,  a  groom  rode 

past  in  mufti,  leading  a  loose  horse  with  a  lady's 

saddle  on  it.     The  animal  gave  a  clumsy  lurch; 

and  the  man,  jerking  it  violently  by  the  head, 

[140] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

bumped  it  into  my  phaeton.     I  saw  my  chance. 

Margot:  "Hullo,  man!  .  .  .  That's  my 
horse!    Whose  groom  are  you?" 

Man  {rather  frightened  at  being  caught  jobbing 
his  lady's  horse  in  the  month) :  "I  am  Mrs.  Chap- 
lin's groom,  miss." 

Margot  :  "Jump  off ;  you  are  the  very  man  I  was 
looking  for;  tell  me,  does  Mrs.  Chaplin  ride  this 
horse  over  everything?" 

Man  {quite  unsuspicious  and  thawing  at  my 
smeetness  and  authority) :  "Bless  your  soul!  Mrs. 
Chaplin  doesn't  'unt  this  'orse!  It's  the  Major's  1 
She  only  'acked  it  to  the  meet." 

Margot  {apprehensively  and  her  heart  sinking) : 
"But  can  it  jump?  .  .  .  Don't  they  hunt 
it?  " 

Man  {pulling  down  my  habit  shirt) :  "It's  a  'orse 
that  can  very  near  jump  anythink,  I  should  say, 
but  the  Major  says  it  shakes  every  tooth  in  'is 
gums  and  she  says  it's  pig-'eaded." 

It  did  not  take  me  long  to  mount  and  in  a 
moment  I  had  left  the  man  miles  behind  me.  Pre- 
pared for  the  worst,  but  in  high  glee,  I  began  to 
look  about  me:  not  a  sign  of  the  hunt!  Only  odd 
remnants  of  the  meet,  straggling  foot-passengers, 

[141] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

terriers  straining  at  a  strap  held  by  drunken  run- 
ners— some  in  old  Beaufort  coats,  others  in  cor- 
duroy— one-horse  shays  of  every  description  by  the 
sides  of  the  road  and  sloppy  girls  with  stick  and 
tammies  standing  in  gaps  of  the  fences,  straining 
their  eyes  across  the  fields  to  see  the  hounds. 

My  horse  with  a  loose  rein  was  trotting  aimlessly 
down  the  road  when,  hearing  a  "Halloa!"  I  pulled 
up  and  saw  the  hounds  streaming  towards  me  all 
together,  so  close  that  you  could  have  covered  them 
with  a  handkerchief. 

What  a  scent!  What  a  pack!  Have  I  headed 
the  fox  ?  Will  they  cross  the  road  ?  No  1  They  are 
turning  away  from  me !    Now's  the  moment ! ! 

I  circled  the  Chaplin  horse  round  with  great 
resolution  and  trotted  up  to  a  wall  at  the  side  of 
the  road;  he  leapt  it  like  a  stag;  we  flew  over  the 
grass  and  the  next  fence;  and,  after  a  little  scram- 
bling, I  found  myself  in  the  same  field  with  hounds. 
The  horse  was  as  rough  as  the  boy  said,  but  a  won- 
derful hunter;  it  could  not  put  a  foot  wrong;  we 
had  a  great  gallop  over  the  walls,  which  only  a 
few  of  the  field  saw. 

When  hounds  checked,  I  was  in  despair;  all 
sorts  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  came  riding  towards 
[142] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

me  and  I  wondered  painfully  which  of  them  would 
be  Mr.  and  which  Mrs.  Chaplin.  What  was  I  to 
do?  Suddenly  remembering  my  new  friend  and 
patron,  I  peered  about  for  the  Duke;  when  I  found 
him  and  told  him  of  the  awkward  circumstances  in 
which  I  had  placed  myself,  he  was  so  much  amused 
that  he  made  my  peace  with  the  Chaplins,  who 
begged  me  to  go  on  riding  their  horse.  They  were 
not  less  susceptible  to  dukes  than  other  people  and 
in  any  case  no  one  was  proof  against  the  old  Duke 
of  Beaufort.  At  the  end  of  the  day  I  was  given 
the  brush — a  fashion  completely  abandoned  in  the 
hunting-field  now — and  I  went  home  happy  and 
tired. 


[143] 


CHAPTER  IV 

MARGOT  AT  A  GIRLS'  SCHOOL — WHO  SPILT  THE  INK? 

THE  ENGINE  DRIVEE's  MISTAKEN  FLIRTATION 

— MARGOT  LEAVES  SCHOOL  IN  DISGUST — DECIDES 
TO  GO  TO  GERMANY  TO  STUDY 

ALTHOUGH  I  did  not  do  much  thinking 
over  my  education,  others  did  it  for  me. 
I  had  been  well  grounded  by  a  series  of  short- 
stayed  governesses  in  the  Druids  and  woad,  in 
Alfred  and  the  cakes,  Romulus  and  Remus  and 
Bruce  and  the  spider.  I  could  speak  French  well 
and  German  a  little;  and  I  knew  a  great  deal  of 
every  kind  of  literature  from  Tristram  Shandy  and 
The  Antiquary  to  Under  Two  Flags  and  The 
Grammarian's  Ftmeral;  but  the  governesses  had 
been  failures  and,  when  Lucy  married,  my  mother 
decided  that  Laura  and  I  should  go  to  school. 

Mademoiselle  de  Mennecy — a  Frenchwoman  of 
ill-temper  and  a  lively  mind — ^had  opened  a  hyper- 
refined  seminary  in  Gloucester  Crescent,  where  she 
undertook  to  "finish"  twelve  young  ladies.  My 
father  had  a  horror  of  girls'  schools  (and  if  he  could 
[144] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"get  through" — ^to  use  the  orthodox  expression  of 
the  spookists — he  would  find  all  his  opinions  on  this 
subject  more  than  justified  by  the  manners,  morals 
and  learning  of  the  young  ladies  of  the  present 
day)  but  as  it  was  a  question  of  only  a  few  months 
he  waived  his  objection. 

No.  7  Gloucester  Crescent  looked  down  on  the 
Great  Western  Railway;  the  lowing  of  cows,  the 
bleating  of  sheep  and  sudden  shrill  whistles  and 
other  odd  sounds  kept  me  awake,  and  my  bed 
rocked  and  trembled  as  the  vigorous  trains  passed 
at  uncertain  intervals  all  through  the  night.  This, 
combined  with  sticky  food,  was  more  than  Laura 
could  bear  and  she  had  no  difficulty  in  persuading 
my  papa  that  if  she  were  to  stay  longer  than  one 
week  her  health  would  certainly  suffer.  I  was  much 
upset  when  she  left  me,  but  faintly  consoled  by 
receiving  permission  to  ride  in  the  Row  three  times 
a  week;  Mile,  de  Mennecy  thought  my  beautiful 
hack  gave  prestige  to  her  front  door  and  raised  no 
objections. 

Sitting  alone  in  the  horsehair  schoolroom,  with  a 
French  patent-leather  Bible  in  my  hands,  sur- 
rounded by  eleven  young  ladies,  made  my  heart 
sink.   ''Et  le  roi  David  deplut  a  V  Eternel/'  I  heard 

[145] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

in  a  broad  Scotch  accent;  and  for  the  first  time  I 
looked  closely  at  my  stable  companions. 

Mile,  de  Mennecy  allowed  no  one  to  argue  with 
her;  and  our  first  little  brush  took  place  after  she 
informed  me  of  this  fact. 

"But  in  that  case,  mademoiselle,"  said  I,  "how 
are  any  of  us  to  learn  anything?  I  don't  know  how 
much  the  others  know,  but  I  know  nothing  except 
what  I've  read;  so,  imless  I  ask  questions,  how  am 
I  to  learn?" 

Mlle.  de  Mennecy:  '^Je  ne  vous  ai  jamais 
defendu  de  me  qiiestionnerj  vous  necoutez  pas, 
mademoiselle.    J'ai  dit  qu'il  ne  fallait  pas  discwter 


avec  mot" 


Margot  {keenly) :  "But,  mademoiselle,  discus- 
sion is  the  only  way  of  making  lessons  interesting." 

Mlle.  de  Mennecy  {with  violence) :  "VouleZ" 
vous  vous  taire?" 

To  talk  to  a  girl  of  nearly  seventeen  in  this  way 
was  so  unintelligent  that  I  made  up  my  mind  I 
would  waste  neither  time  nor  affection  on  her. 

None  of  the  girls  were  particularly  clever,  but 

we  all  liked  each  other  and  for  the  first  time — and 

I  may  safely  say  the  last — I  was  looked  upon  as  a 

kind  of  heroine.    It  came  about  in  this  way:  Mile, 

[146] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

de  Mennecy  was  never  wrong.  To  quote  Miss  Fow- 
ler's admirable  saying  a  propos  of  Jher  father,  **She 
always  let  us  have  her  own  way."  If  the  bottle  of 
ink  was  upset,  or  the  back  of  a  book  burst,  she 
never  waited  to  find  out  who  had  done  it,  but  in  a 
torrent  of  words  crashed  into  the  first  girl  she  sus- 
pected, her  face  becoming  a  silly  mauve  and  her 
bust  heaving  with  passion.  This  made  me  so  indig- 
nant that,  one  day  when  the  ink  was  spilt  and  Mile, 
de  Mennecy  as  usual  scolded  the  wrong  girl,  I 
determined  I  would  stand  it  no  longer.  Meeting 
the  victim  of  Mademoiselle's  temper  in  the  passage, 
I  said  to  her: 

"But  why  didn't  you  say  you  hadn't  done  it,  ass!" 
Girl  {catching  her  sob) :  "What  was  the  good! 
She  never  listens;  and  I  would  only  have  had  to 
tell  her  who  really  spilt  the  ink." 

This  did  seem  a  little  awkward,  so  I  said  to  her: 
"That  would  never  have  done!  Very  well,  then, 
I  will  go  and  put  the  thing  right  for  you,  but  tell 
the  girls  they  must  back  me.  She's  a  senseless 
woman  and  I  can't  think  why  you  are  all  so  fright- 
ened of  her." 

Girl:  "It's  all  very  well  for  you!    Madmozell  is 
a  howling  snob,  you  should  have  heard  her  on  you 

[147] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

before  you  came !  She  said  your  father  would  very 
likely  be  made  a  peer  and  your  sister  Laura  marry 
Sir  Charles  Dilke."  (The  thought  of  this  overrated 
man  marrying  Laura  mas  almost  more  than  I  could 
bear^  hut  curiosity  kept  me  silent,  and  she  con- 
tinued,) "You  see,  she  is  far  nicer  to  you  than  to 
us,  because  she  is  afraid  you  may  leave  her." 

Not  having  thought  of  this  before,  I  said: 

"Is  that  really  true?  What  a  horrible  woman! 
Well,  I  had  better  go  and  square  it  up;  but  will 
you  all  back  me?  Now  don't  go  fretting  on  and 
making  yourself  miserable." 

Girl:  "I  don't  so  much  mind  what  you  call  her 
flu^'de-bouche  scolding,  but,  when  she  flounced  out 
of  the  room,  she  said  I  was  not  to  go  home  this 
Saturday." 

Margot:  "Oh,  that'll  be  all  right.  Just  you  go 
off."    (Eant  girl,  drying  her  eyes. ) 

It  had  never  occurred  to  me  that  Mile,  de  Men- 
necy  was  a  snob:  this  knowledge  was  a  great 
weapon  in  my  hands  and  I  determined  upon  my 
plan  of  action.  I  hunted  about  in  my  room  till  I 
found  one  of  my  linen  overalls,  heavily  stained  with 
dolly  dyes.  After  putting  it  on,  I  went  and 
[148] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

knocked  at  Mile,  de  Mennecy's  door  and  opening 
it  said: 

"Mademoiselle,  I'm  afraid  you'll  be  very  angry, 
but  it  was  I  who  spilt  the  ink  and  burst  the  back 
of  your  dictionary.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  at 
once,  I  know,  but  I  never  thought  any  girl  would 
be  such  an  image  as  to  let  you  scold  her  without 
telling  you  she  had  not  done  it."  Seeing  a  look  of 
suspicion  on  her  sunless  face,  I  added  nonchalantly, 
"Of  course,  if  you  think  my  conduct  sets  a  bad 
example  in  your  school,  I  can  easily  go!" 

I  observed  her  eyelids  flicker  and  I  said: 

"I  think,  before  you  scolded  Sarah,  you  might 
have  heard  what  she  had  to  say." 

Mlle.  de  Mennecy:  "Ce  que  vous  *dites  me 
choque  profondement;  il  m'est  difficile  de  croire  que 
vous  avez  fait  ime  pftreille  Idchete,  Tnademoiseller 

M ARGOT  {protesting  with  indignation) :  ''Hardly 
Idchete,  Mademoiselle !  I  only  knew  a  few  moments 
ago  that  you  had  been  so  amazingly  unjust.  Direct- 
ly I  heard  it,  I  came  to  you;  but  as  I  said  before, 
I  am  quite  prepared  to  leave." 

Mlle.  de  Mennecy  (feeling  her  way  to  a  change 
of  front) :  "Sarah  s'est  conduit e  si  hero'iquement 
que  pour  le  moment  je  n'insiste  plus.     Je  vous 

[149] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

felicite,  mademoiselle,  mir  votre  franchise;  vous 
pouvez  rejoindre  vos  camarades." 

The  Lord  had  delivered  her  into  my  hands. 
•  •••••• 

One  afternoon,  when  our  instructress  had  gone 
to  hear  Princess  Christian  open  a  bazaar,  I  was 
smoking  a  cigarette  on  the  schoolroom  balcony 
which  overlooked  the  railway  line. 

It  was  a  beautiful  evening,  and  a  wave  of  de- 
pression came  over  me.  Our  prettiest  pupil,  Ethel 
Brydson,  said  to  me: 

"Time  is  upl  We  had  better  go  in  and  do  our 
preparation.  There  would  be  the  devil  to  pay  if 
you  were  caught  with  that  cigarette." 

I  leant  over  the  balcony  blowing  smoke  into  the 
air  in  a  vain  attempt  to  make  rings,  but,  failing, 
kissed  my  hand  to  the  sky  and  with  a  parting 
gesture  cursed  the  school  and  expressed  a  vivid 
desire  to  go  home  and  leave  Gloucester  Crescent 
for  ever. 

Ethel  (pulling  my  dress) :  "Good  gracious, 
MargotI  Stop  kissing  your  hand  I  Don't  you  see 
that  man?" 

I  looked  down  and  to  my  intense  amusement  saw 
an  engine-driver  leaning  over  the  side  of  his  tender, 
[160] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

kissing  his  hand  to  me.  I  strained  over  the  balcony 
and  kissed  both  mine  back  to  him,  after  which  I 
returned  to  the  school-room. 

Our  piano  was  placed  in  the  window  and,  the 
next  morning,  while  Ethel  was  arranging  her  music 
preparatory  to  practising,  it  appeared  my  friend 
the  engine-driver  began  kissing  his  hand  to  her.  It 
was  eight  o'clock  and  Mile,  de  Mennecy  was  pin- 
ning on  her  twists  in  the  window. 

I  had  finished  my  toilette  and  was  sitting  in  the 
reading-room,  learning  the  passage  chosen  by  our 
elocution  master  for  the  final  competition  in 
recitation. 

My  fingers  were  in  my  ears  and  I  was  murmur- 
ing in  dramatic  tones : 

"Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  lend  me  your 
ears,  I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise 
him.     .     .     ." 

The  girls  came  in  and  out,  but  I  never  noticed 
them;  and  when  the  breakfast  bell  rang,  I  shoved 
the  book  into  my  desk  and  ran  downstairs  to  break- 
fast. I  observed  that  Ethel's  place  was  empty; 
none  of  the  girls  looked  at  me,  but  munched  their 
bread  and  sipped  their  tepid  tea  while  Mademoi- 

[151] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

selle  made  a  few  frigid  general  remarks  and,  after 
saying  a  French  grace,  left  the  room. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "what's  the  row?" 

Silence. 

M ARGOT  (looking  from  face  to  face) :  "Ah!  The 
Ttiot  dfordre  is  that  you  are  not  to  speak  to  me.  Is 
that  the  idea?" 

Silence. 

Margot  {vehemently,  with  bitterness) :  "This  is 
exactly  what  I  thought  would  happen  at  a  girls' 
school — that  I  should  find  myself  boycotted  and 
betrayed." 

First  Girl  [bursting  out) :  "Oh,  Margot,  it's 
not  that  at  all !  It's  because  Ethel  won't  betray  you 
that  we  are  all  to  be  punished  to-day!" 

Margot:  "What!  Collective  punishment?  And 
I  am  the  only  one  to  get  off?  How  priceless! 
Well,  I  must  say  this  is  Mile,  de  Mennecy's  first 
act  of  justice.  I've  been  so  often  punished  for  all 
of  you  that  I'm  sure  you  won't  mind  standing  me 
this  little  outing!  Where  is  Ethel?  Why  don't  you 
answer?  [Very  slowly)  Oh,  all  right!  I  have 
done  with  you !  And  I  shall  leave  this  very  day,  so 
help  me  God!" 

On  hearing  that  Mile,  de  Mennecy  had  dismissed 
[152] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Ethel  on  the  spot  because  the  engine-driver  had 
kissed  his  hand  to  her,  I  went  immediately  and  told 
her  the  whole  story;  all  she  answered  was  that  I 
was  such  a  liar  she  did  not  believe  a  word  I  said. 

I  assured  her  that  I  was  painfully  truthful  by 
nature,  but  her  circular  and  senseless  punishments 
had  so  frightened  the  girls  that  lying  had  become 
the  custom  of  the  place  and  I  felt  in  honour  bound 
to  take  my  turn  in  the  lies  and  the  punishments. 
After  which  I  left  the  room  and  the  school. 

On  my  arrival  in  Grosvenor  Square  I  told  my 
parents  that  I  must  go  home  to  Glen,  as  I  felt  suffo- 
cated by  the  pettiness  and  conventionality  of  my 
late  experience.  The  moderate  teaching  and  gen- 
eral atmosphere  of  Gloucester  Crescent  had  de- 
pressed me,  and  London  feels  airless  when  one  is 
out  of  spirits:  in  any  case  it  can  never  be  quite  a 
home  to  any  one  born  in  Scotland. 


The  only  place  I  look  upon  as  home  which  does 
not  belong  to  me  is  Archerfield* — a  house  near 
North  Berwick,  in  which  we  lived  for  seven  years. 
After  Glen  and  my  cottage  in  Berkshire,  Archer- 
field  is  the  place  I  love  best  in  the  world.    I  was 

•Archerfield  belonged  to  Mrs.  Hamilton  Ogilvle,  of  Beale. 

[153] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

both  happier  and  more  miserable  there  than  I  have 
ever  been  in  my  life.  Just  as  William  James  has 
written  on  varieties  of  religious  experience,  so  I 
could  write  on  the  varieties  of  my  moral  and  domes- 
tic experiences  at  that  wonderful  place.  If  ever 
I  were  to  be  as  unhappy  again  as  I  was  there,  I 
would  fly  to  the  shelter  of  those  Rackham  woods, 
seek  isolation  on  those  curving  coasts  where  the 
gulls  shriek  and  dive  and  be  ultimately  healed  by 
the  beauty  of  the  anchored  seas  which  bear  their 
islands  like  the  Christ  Child  on  their  breasts. 

Unfortunately  for  me,  my  father  had  business 
which  kept  him  in  London.  He  was  in  treaty  with 
Lord  Gerard  to  buy  his  uninteresting  house  in  an 
uninteresting  square.  The  only  thing  that  pleased 
me  in  Grosvenor  Square  was  the  iron  gate.  When 
I  could  not  find  the  key  of  the  square  and  wanted 
to  sit  out  with  my  admirers,  after  leaving  a  ball 
early,  I  was  in  the  habit  of  climbing  over  these 
gates  in  my  tulle  dress.  This  was  a  feat  which  was 
attended  by  more  than  one  risk:  if  you  did  not  give 
a  prominent  leap  off  the  narrow  space  from  the 
top  of  the  gate,  you  would  very  likely  be  caught  up 
by  the  tulle  fountain  of  your  dress,  in  which  case 
you  might  easily  lose  your  life;  or,  if  you  did  not 
[154] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY   ' 

keep  your  eye  on  the  time,  you  would  very  likely 
be  caught  by  an  early  house-maid,  in  which  case 
you  might  easily  lose  your  reputation.  No  one  is 
a  good  judge  of  her  own  reputation,  but  I  like  to 
think  that  those  iron  gates  were  the  silent  witnesses 
of  my  milder  manner. 

My  father,  however,  loved  Grosvenor  Square 
and,  being  anxious  that  Laura  and  I  should  come 
out  together,  bought  the  house  in  1881. 

No  prodigal  was  ever  given  a  warmer  welcome 
than  I  was  when  I  left  the  area  of  the  Great 
Western  Railway ;  but  the  problem  of  how  to  finish 
my  education  remained  and  I  was  determined  that 
I  would  not  make  my  debut  till  I  was  eighteen. 
What  with  reading,  hunting  and  falling  in  love  at 
Easton  Grey,  I  was  not  at  all  happy  and  wanted 
to  be  alone. 

I  knew  no  girls  and  had  no  friends  except  my 
sisters  and  was  not  eager  to  talk  to  them  about  my 
affairs ;  I  never  could  at  any  time  put  all  of  myself 
into  discussion  which  degenerates  into  gossip.  I 
had  not  formed  the  dangerous  habit  of  writing  good 
letters  about  myself,  dramatizing  the  principal 
part.  I  shrank  then,  as  I  do  now,  from  exposing 
the  secrets  and  sensations  of  life.    Reticence  should 

[155] 


•      MARGOT  ASQUITH 

guard  the  soul  and  only  those  who  have  compassion 
should  be  admitted  to  the  shrine.  When  I  peer 
among  my  dead  or  survey  my  living  friends,  I  see 
hardly  any  one  with  this  quality.  For  the  moment 
my  cousin  Nan  Tennant,  Mrs.  Arthur  Sassoon, 
Mrs.  James  Rothschild,  Antoine  Bibesco,  and  my 
son  and  husband  are  the  only  people  I  can  think 
of  who  possess  it. 

John  Morley  has,  in  carved  letters  of  stone  upon 
his  chimney-piece,  Bacon's  fine  words,  "The  nobler 
a  soul,  the  more  objects  of  compassion  it  hath." 

When  I  first  read  them,  I  wondered  where  I- 
could  meet  those  souls  and  I  have  wondered  ever 
since.  To  have  compassion  you  need  courage,  you 
must  fight  for  the  objects  of  your  pity  and  you 
must  feel  and  express  tenderness  towards  all  men. 
You  will  not  meet  disinterested  emotion,  though 
you  may  seek  it  all  your  life,  and  you  will  seldom 
find  enough  pity  for  the  pathos  of  life. 

My  husband  is  a  man  of  disinterested  emotion. 
One  morning,  when  he  and  I  were  in  Paris,  where 
we  had  gone  for  a  holiday,  I  found  him  sitting  with 
his  head  in  his  hands  and  the  newspaper  on  his  knee. 
I  saw  he  was  deeply  moved  and,  full  of  apprehen- 
sion, I  put  my  arm  round  him  and  asked  if  he  had 
[156] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

had  bad  news.  He  pointed  to  a  paragraph  in  the 
paper  and  I  read  how  some  of  the  Eton  boys  had 
had  to  break  the  bars  of  their  windows  to  escape 
from  fire  and  others  had  been  burnt  to  death.  We 
knew  neither  a  boy  nor  the  parent  of  any  boy  at 
Eton  at  that  time,  but  Henry's  eyes  were  full  of 
tears,  and  he  could  not  speak. 

I  had  the  same  experience  with  him  over  the 
wreck  of  the  Titamc,  When  we  read  of  that 
challenging,  luxurious  ship  at  bay  in  the  ice-fields 
and  the  captain  sending  his  unanswered  signals  to 
the  stars,  we  could  not  sit  through  dinner. 

I  knew  no  one  of  this  kind  of  sympathy  in  my 
youth,  and  my  father  was  too  busy  and  my  mother 
too  detached  for  me  to  have  told  them  anything. 
I  wanted  to  be  alone  and  I  wanted  to  learn.  After 
endless  talks  it  was  decided  that  I  should  go  to 
Germany  for  four  or  five  months  and  thus  settle 
the  problem  of  an  unbegun  but  finishing  education. 

Looking  back  on  this  decision,  I  think  it  was  a 
remarkable  one.  I  had  a  passion  for  dancing  and 
my  father  wanted  me  to  go  to  balls ;  I  had  a  genius 
for  horses  and  adored  hunting;  I  had  such  a  won- 
derful hack  that  every  one  collected  at  the  Park 
rails  when  they  saw  me  coming  into  the  Row;  but 

[157] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

all  this  did  not  deflect  me  from  my  purpose  and  I 
went  to  Dresden  alone  with  a  stupid  maid  at  a  time 
when — if  not  in  England,  certainly  in  Germany — 
I  might  have  passed  as  a  moderate  beauty. 


[168] 


CHAPTER  V 

A  DRESDEN  LODGING  HOUSE — MIDNIGHT  ADVENTURE 

WITH     AN     OFFICER     AFTER     THE     OPERA AN 

ELDERLY  AMERICAN   ADMIRER YELLOW   ROSES, 

GRAF   VON — ^VON — ^AND   MOTIFS   FROM   WAGNER" 

FRAU  VON  MACH  kept  a  ginger-coloured 
lodging-house  high  up  in  Liittichau-strasse. 
She  was  a  woman  of  culture  and  refinement;  her 
mother  had  been  English  and  her  husband,  having 
gone  mad  in  the  Franco-Prussian  war,  had  left  her 
penniless  with  three  children.  She  had  to  work  for 
her  living  and  she  cooked  and  scrubbed  without  a 
thought  for  herself  from  dawn  till  dark. 

There  were  thirteen  pianos  on  our  floor  and  two 
or  three  permanent  lodgers.  The  rest  of  the  people 
came  and  went — ^men,  women  and  boys  of  every 
nationality,  professionals  and  amateurs — ^but  I  was 
too  busy  to  care  or  notice  who  went  or  who  came. 

Although  my  mother  was  bold  and  right  to  let 
me  go  as  a  bachelor  to  Dresden,  I  could  not  have 
done  it  myself.    Later  on,  like  every  one  else,  I  sent 

[159] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

my  stepdaughter  and  daughter  to  be  educated  in 
Germany  for  a  short  time,  but  they  were  chaperoned 
by  a  woman  of  worth  and  character,  who  never  left 
them :  my  German  nursery-governess,  who  came  to 
me  when  Elizabeth  was  four. 

In  parenthesis,  I  may  mention  that,  in  the  early 
terrible  days  of  the  war,  our  thoughtful  Press, 
wishing  to  make  money  out  of  public  hysteria,  had 
the  bright  idea  of  turning  this  simple,  devoted 
woman  into  a  spy.  There  was  not  a  pressman  who 
did  not  laugh  in  his  sleeve  at  this  and  openly  make 
a  stunt  of  it,  but  it  had  its  political  uses ;  and,  after 
the  Russians  had  been  seen  with  snow  on  their  boots 
by  everyone  in  England,  the  gentlemen  of  the 
Press  calculated  that  almost  anything  would  be  be- 
lieved if  it  could  be  repeated  often  enough.  And 
they  were  right:  the  spiteful  and  the  silly  dissemi- 
nated lies  about  our  governess  from  door  to  door 
with  the  kind  of  venom  that  belongs  in  equal  pro- 
portions to  the  credulous,  the  cowards  and  the 
cranks.  The  greenhorns  beheved  it  and  the  f  unkers, 
who  saw  a  plentiful  crop  of  spies  in  every  bush, 
found  no  difficulty  in  mobilising  their  terrors  from 
my  governess — already  languishing  in  the  Tower  of 
London — to  myself,  who  suddenly  became  a  tennis- 
ri60] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

champion  and  an  hahituee  of  the  German  officers' 
camps ! 

The  Dresden  of  my  day  was  different  from  the 
Dresden  of  twenty  years  after.  I  never  saw  an 
English  person  the  whole  time  I  was  there.  After 
settling  into  my  new  rooms,  I  wrote  out  for  myself 
a  severe  Stundenplan,  which  I  pinned  over  my  head 
next  to  my  alarm-clock.  At  6  every  morning  I 
woke  up  and  dashed  into  the  kitchen  to  have  coffee 
with  the  solitary  slavey;  after  that  I  practised  the 
fiddle  or  piano  till  8.30,  when  we  had  the  pension 
breakfast;  and  the  rest  of  the  day  was  taken  up  by 
literature,  drawing  and  other  lessons.  I  went  to 
concerts  or  the  opera  by  myself  every  night. 

One  day  Frau  von  Mach  came  to  me  greatly  dis- 
dressed  by  a  letter  she  had  received  from  my  mother 
begging  her  to  take  in  no  men  lodgers  While  I  was 
in  the  pension,  as  some  of  her  friends  in  England 
had  told  her  that  I  might  elope  with  a  foreigner. 
To  this  hour  I  do  not  know  whether  my  mother  was 
serious;  but  I  wrote  and  told  her  that  Frau  von 
Mach's  life  depended  on  her  lodgers,  that  there  was 
only  one  permanent  lodger — an  old  American 
called  Loring,  who  never  spoke  to  me — and  that 
I  had  no  time  to  elope.    Many  and  futile  were  the 

[161] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

efforts  to  make  me  return  home;  but,  though  I 
wrote  to  England  regularly,  I  never  alluded  to  any 
of  them,  as  they  appeared  childish  to  me. 

I  made  great  friends  with  Frau  von  Mach  and 
in  loose  moments  sat  on  her  kitchen-table  smoking 
cigarettes  and  eating  black  cherries;  we  dis- 
cussed Shakespeare,  Wagner,  Brahms,  Middle- 
march,  Bach  and  Hegel,  and  the  time  flew. 

One  night  I  arrived  early  at  the  Opera  House 
and  was  looking  about  while  the  fiddles  were  tuning 
up.  I  wore  my  pearls  and  a  scarlet  crepe-de-chine 
dress  and  a  black  cloth  cape  with  a  hood  on  it,  which 
I  put  on  over  my  head  when  I  walked  home  in  the 
rain.  I  was  having  a  frank  stare  at  the  audience, 
when  I  observed  just  opposite  me  an  officer  in  a 
white  uniform.  As  the  Saxon  soldiers  wore  pale 
blue,  I  wondered  what  army  he  could  belong  to. 

He  was  a  fine-looking  young  man,  with  tailor- 
made  shoulders,  a  small  waist  and  silver  and  black 
on  his  sword-belt.  When  he  turned  to  the  stage,  I 
looked  at  him  through  my  opera-glasses.  On  closer 
inspection,  he  was  even  handsomer  than  I  had 
thought.  A  lady  joined  him  in  the  box  and  he  took 
off  her  cloak,  while  she  stood  up  gazing  down  at 
the  stalls,  pulling  up  her  long  black  gloves.  She 
[162] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

wore  a  row  of  huge  pearls,  which  fell  below  her 
waist,  and  a  black  jet  decollete  dress.  Few  people 
wore  low  dresses  at  the  opera  and  I  saw  half  the 
audience  fixing  her  with  their  glasses.  She  was 
evidently  famous.  Her  hair  was  fox-red  and 
pinned  back  on  each  side  of  her  femples  with 
Spanish  combs  of  gold  and  pearls;  she  surveyed 
the  stalls  with  cavernous  eyes  set  in  a  snow-white 
face;  and  in  her  hand  she  held  a  bouquet  of  lilac 
orchids.  She  was  the  best-looking  woman  I  saw  all 
the  time  I  was  in  Germany  and  I  could  not  take 
my  eyes  off  her.  The  white  officer  began  to  look 
about  the  opera-house  when  my  red  dress  caught 
his  eye.  He  put  up  his  glasses,  and  I  instantly  put 
mine  down.  Although  the  lights  were  lowered  for 
the  overture,  I  saw  him  looking  at  me  for  some 
time. 

I  had  been  in  the  habit  of  walking  about  in  the 
entr'actes  and,  when  the  curtain  dropped  at  the 
end  of  the  first  act,  I  left  the  box.  It  did  not  take 
me  long  to  identify  the  white  officer.  He  was  not 
accompanied  by  his  lady,  but  stood  leaning  against 
the  wall  smoking  a  cigar  and  talking  to  a  man ;  as 
I  passed  him  I  had  to  stop  for  a  moment  for  fear 
of  treading  on  his  outstretched  toes.     He  pulled 

[163] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

himself  erect  to  get  out  of  my  way;  I  looked  up 
and  our  eyes  met ;  I  don't  think  I  blush  easily,  but 
something  in  his  gaze  may  have  made  me  blush.  I 
lowered  my  eyelids  and  walked  on. 

The  Meisterdnger  was  my  favourite  opera  and 
so  it  appeared  to  be  of  the  Dresdeners;  Wagner, 
having  quarrelled  with  the  authorities,  refused  to 
allow  the  Ring  to  be  played  in  the  Dresden  Opera 
House;  and  every  one  was  tired  of  the  swans  and 
doves  of  Lohengrin  and  Tannhdttser. 

There  was  a  great  crowd  that  night  and,  as  it 
was  raining  when  we  came  out,  I  hung  about, 
hoping  to  get  a  cab ;  I  saw  my  white  officer  with  his 
lady,  but  he  did  not  see  me ;  I  heard  him  before  he 
got  into  the  brougham  give  elaborate  orders  to  the 
coachman  to  put  him  down  at  some  club. 

After  waiting  for  some  time,  as  no  cab  turned 
up,  I  pulled  the  hood  of  my  cloak  over  my  head 
and  started  to  walk  home;  when  the  crowd  scat- 
tered I  found  myself  alone  and  I  turned  into  a 
little  street  which  led  into  Liittichau-strasse.  Sud- 
denly I  became  aware  that  I  was  being  followed; 
I  heard  the  even  steps  and  the  click  of  spurs  of 
some  one  walking  behind  me;  I  should  not  have 
noticed  this  had  I  not  halted  under  a  lamp  to  pull 
[164] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

on  my  hood,  which  the  wind  had  blown  off.  When 
I  stopped,  the  steps  also  stopped.  I  walked  on, 
wondering  if  it  had  been  my  imagination,  and 
again  I  heard  the  click  of  spurs  coming  nearer. 
The  street  being  deserted,  I  was  unable  to  endure 
it  any  longer;  I  turned  round  and  there  was  the 
officer.  His  black  cloak  hanging  loosely  over  his 
shoulders  showed  me  the  white  uniform  and  silver 
belt.  He  saluted  me  and  asked  me  in  a  curious 
Belgian  French  if  he  might  accompany  me  home. 
I  said: 

"Oh,  certainly!  But  I  am  not  at  all  nervous  in 
the  dark." 

Officer  (topping  under  the  lamp  to  light  a 
cigarette) :  "You  like  Wagner?  Do  you  know  him 
well?    I  confess  I  find  him  long  and  loud." 

Margot:  "He  is  a  little  long,  but  so  wonderful!" 

Officer:  "Don't  you  feel  tired?  (With  em- 
phasis)  I  do!'* 

Margot:  "No,  I'm  not  at  all  tired." 

Officer:  "You  would  not  like  to  go  and  have 
supper  with  me  in  a  private  room  in  a  hotel,  would 
you?" 

Margot:  "You  are  very  kind,  but  I  don't  like 
supper;  besides,  it  is  late.    (Leaving  his  side  to  look 

[165] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

at  the  number  on  the  door)  I  am  afraid  we  must 
part  here." 

Officer  {drawing  a  long  breath) :  "But  you 
said  I  might  take  you  home ! !" 

Margot  (with  a  slow  smile):  "I  know  I  did,  but 
this  is  my  home." 

He  looked  disappointed  and  surprised,  but  tak- 
ing my  hand  he  kissed  it,  then  stepping  back 
saluted  and  said: 

''Pardonnez-moi,  mademoiselle.'^ 


My  second  adventure  occurred  on  my  way  back 
to  England.  After  a  little  correspondence,  my 
mother  allowed  me  to  take  Frau  von  Mach  with 
me  to  Berlin  to  hear  the  Ring  der  Nibelungen,  She 
and  I  were  much  excited  at  this  little  outing,  in 
honour  of  which  I  had  ordered  her  a  new  black  satin 
dress.  German  taste  is  like  German  figures,  thick 
and  clumsy,  and  my  dear  old  friend  looked  like  a 
hold-all  in  my  gift. 

When  we  arrived  in  Berlin  I  found  my  room  in 
the  hotel  full  of  every  kind  of  flower;  and  on  one 
of  the  bouquets  was  placed  the  card  of  our  perma- 
nent lodger,  Mr.  Loring.  I  called  out  to  Frau  von 
Mach,  who  was  unpacking: 
[166] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"Do  come  here,  dearest,  and  look  at  my  wonder- 
ful roses  I  You  will  never  guess  who  they  come 
from!" 

Frau  von  Mach  (looking  rather  guilty):  "I 
think  I  can  guess." 

Margot:  "I  see  you  know!  But  who  would 
have  dreamt  that  an  old  maid  like  Loring  would 
have  thought  of  such  gallantry?" 

Frau  von  Mach:  "But  surely,  dear  child,  you 
knew  that  he  admired  you?" 

Margot:  "Admired  me!  You  must  be  cracked! 
I  never  remember  his  saying  a  civil  word  to  me  the 
whole  time  I  was  in  Dresden.  Poor  mamma!  If 
she  were  here  now  she  would  feel  that  her  letter  to 
you  on  the  danger  of  my  elopement  was  amply 
justified!" 

Frau  von  Mach  and  I  sat  side  by  side  at  the 
opera;  and  on  my  left  was  a  German  officer.  In 
front  of  us  there  was  a  lady  with  beautiful  hair 
and  diamond  grasshoppers  in  it ;  her  two  daughters 
sat  on  either  side  of  her. 

Everything  was  conducted  in  the  dark  and  it  was 
evident  that  the  audience  was  strung  up  to  a  high 
pitch  of  expectant  emotion,  for,  when  I  whispered 
to  Frau  von  Mach,  the  officer  on  my  left  said, 

[167] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

"Hush  I"  which  I  thought  extremely  rude.  Several 
men  in  the  stalls,  sitting  on  the  nape  of  their  necks, 
had  covered  their  faces  with  pocket-handkerchiefs, 
which  I  thought  infinitely  ridiculous,  bursting  as 
they  were  with  beef  and  beer.  My  musical  left  was 
only  a  little  less  good-looking  than  the  white  officer. 
He  kept  a  rigid  profile  towards  me  and  squashed 
up  into  a  corner  to  avoid  sharing  an  arm  of  the  stall 
with  me.  As  we  had  to  sit  next  to  each  other  for 
four  nights  running,  I  found  this  a  little  exag- 
gerated. 

I  was  angry  with  myself  for  dropping  my  fan 
and  scent-bottle;  the  lady  picked  up  the  bottle  and 
the  officer  the  fan.  The  lady  gave  me  back  my 
bottle  and,  when  the  curtain  fell,  began  talking  to 
me. 

She  had  turned  round  once  or  twice  during  the 
scene  to  look  at  me.  I  found  her  most  intelligent; 
she  knew  England  and  had  heard  Rubinstein  and 
Joachim  play  at  the  Monday  Pops.  She  had  been 
to  the  Tower  of  London,  Madame  Tussaud's  and 
Lord's. 

The  officer  kept  my  fan  in  his  hands  and,  instead 
of  going  out  in  the  entr'acte,  stayed  and  listened  to 
our  conversation.  When  the  curtain  went  up  and 
[168] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

the  people  returned  to  their  seats,  he  still  held  my 
fan.  In  the  next  interval  the  lady  and  the  girls 
went  out  and  my  left-hand  neighbour  opened  con- 
versation with  me.    He  said  in  perfect  English: 

"Are  you  really  as  fond  of  this  music  as  you 
appear  to  be?" 

To  which  I  replied: 

"You  imply  I  am  humbugging!  I  never  pretend 
anything;  why  should  you  think  I  do?  I  don't  lean 
back  perspiring  or  cover  my  face  with  a  handker- 
chief as  your  compatriots  are  doing,  it  is  true, 
but  .  .  ." 

He  (interrupting):  "I  am  very  glad  of  that! 
Do  you  think  you  would  recognise  a  motif  if  I 
wrote  one  for  you?" 

Feeling  rather  nettled,  I  said: 

"You  must  think  me  a  perfect  gowk  if  you  sup- 
pose I  should  not  recognise  any  motif  in  any  opera 
of  Wagner!" 

I  said  this  with  a  commanding  gesture,  but  I 
was  far  from  confident  that  he  would  not  catch  me 
out.  He  opened  his  cigarette-case,  took  out  a  visit- 
ing card  and  wrote  the  Schlummermotif  on  the 
back  before  giving  it  to  me.     After  telling  him 

[169] 


L 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

what  the  motif  was,  I  looked  at  his  very  long  name 

on  the  back  of  the  card:  Graf  von — . 

Seeing  me  do  this,  he  said  with  a  sHght  twinkle: 

"Won't  you  write  me  a  motif  now?" 

Margot:  "Alas!  I  can't  write  music  and  to  save 

my  life  could  not  do  what  you  have  done ;  are  you 

a  composer?" 

Geaf  von — :  "I  shan't  tell  you  what  I  am — 

especially  as  I  have  given  you  my  name — till  you 

tell  me  who  you  are." 

Margot:  "I'm  a  young  lady  at  large!" 

At  this,  Frau  von  Mach  nudged  me;  I  thought 

she  wanted  to  be  introduced,  so  I  looked  at  his  name 

and  said  seriously: 

"Graf  von — ,  this  is  my  friend  Frau  von  Mach." 
He  instantly  stood  up,  bent  his  head  and,  click- 
ing his  heels,  said  to  her : 

"Will  you  please  introduce  me  to  this  young 

lady?" 

Frau  von  Mach  (with  a  smile):    "Certainly. 

Miss  Margot  Tennant." 

Graf  von — :    "I  hope,  mademoiselle,  you  will 

forgive  me  thinking  your  interest  in  Wagner  might 

not  be  as  great  as  it  appeared,  but  it  enabled  me  to 

introduce  myself  to  you." 
[170] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Margot:  "Don't  apologise,  you  have  done  me 
a  good  turn,  for  I  shall  lie  back  and  cover  my  face 
with  a  handkerchief  all  through  this  next  act  to 
convince  you." 

Graf  von — :  "That  would  be  a  heavy  punish- 
ment for  me  .  .  .  and  incidentally  for  this  ugly 
audience." 

On  the  last  night  of  the  Ring,  I  took  infinite 
trouble  with  my  toilette.  When  we  arrived  at  the 
theatre  neither  the  lady,  her  girls,  nor  the  Graf 
were  there.  I  found  an  immense  bouquet  on  my 
seat,  of  yellow  roses  with  thick  clusters  of  violets 
round  the  stalk,  the  whole  thing  tied  up  with  wide 
Parma  violet  ribbons.  It  was  a  wonderful  bouquet. 
I  buried  my  face  in  the  roses,  wondering  why  the 
Graf  was  so  late,  fervently  hoping  that  the  lady 
and  her  daughters  would  not  turn  up :  no  English- 
man would  have  thought  of  giving  one  flowers  in 
this  way,  said  I  to  myself.  The  curtain!  How 
very  tiresome!  The  doors  would  all  be  shut  now, 
as  late-comers  were  not  allowed  to  disturb  the 
Gdtterddmmerung,  The  next  day  I  was  to  travel 
home,  which  depressed  me;  my  life  would  be  dif- 
ferent in  London  and  all  my  lessons  were  over  for 
ever!     What  could  have  happened  to  the  Graf, 

[171] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

the  lady  and  her  daughters?  Before  the  curtain 
rose  for  the  last  act,  he  arrived  and,  flinging  off  his 
cloak,  said  breathlessly  to  me : 

"You  can't  imagine  how  furious  I  am !  To-night 
of  all  nights  we  had  a  regimental  dinner!  I  asked 
my  colonel  to  let  me  slip  off  early,  or  I  should  not 
be  here  now;  I  had  to  say  good-bye  to  you.  Is  it 
true  then?    Are  you  really  off  to-morrow? " 

Margot  (pressing  the  bouquet  to  her  face,  lean- 
ing faintly  towards  him  and  looking  into  his  eyes) : 
"Alas,  yes!  I  will  send  you  something  from  Eng- 
land so  that  you  mayn't  quite  forget  me.  I  won't 
lean  back  and  cover  my  head  with  a  handkerchief 
to-night,  but  if  I  hide  my  face  in  these  divine  roses 
now  and  then,  you  will  forgive  me  and  understand." 

He  said  nothing  but  looked  a  little  perplexed. 
We  had  not  observed  the  curtain  rise  but  were 
rudely  reminded  of  it  by  a  lot  of  angry  "Hush's" 
all  round  us.  He  clasped  his  hands  together  under 
his  chin,  bending  his  head  down  on  them  and  taking 
up  both  arms  of  the  stall  with  his  elbows.  When  I 
whispered  to  him,  he  did  not  tiu-n  his  head  at  all  but 
just  cocked  his  ear  down  to  me.  Was  he  pretending 
to  be  more  interested  in  Wagner  than  he  really 
was?" 

[172] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  buried  my  face  in  my  roses,  the  curtain 
dropped.    It  was  all  over. 

Graf  von — (turning  to  me  and  looking  straight 
into  my  eyes) :  "If  it  is  true  what  you  said,  that 
you  know  no  one  in  Berlin,  what  a  wonderful  com- 
pliment the  lady  with  the  diamond  grasshoppers 
has  paid  you !" 

He  took  my  bouquet,  smelt  the  roses  and,  giving 
it  back  to  me  with  a  sigh,  said : 

"Good-bye." 


[173] 


CHAPTER  VI 

MAKGOT  RIDES  A  HORSE  INTO  LONDON  HOME  AND 
SMASHES  FURNITURE — SUITOR  IS  FORBIDDEN 
THE  HOUSE — ^ADVISES  GIRL  FRIEND  TO  ELOPE; 
INTERVIEW  WITH  GIRL's  FATHER — TETE-A-TETE 
DINNER  IN  PARIS  WITH  BARON  HIRSCH — WIN- 
NING TIP  FROM  FRED  ARCHER,  THE  JOCKEY 

WHEN  I  first  came  out  in  London  we  had  no 
friends  of  fashion  to  get  me  invitations  to 
balls  and  parties.  The  Walters,  who  were  my 
mother's  rich  relations,  in  consequence  of  a  family 
quarrel  were  not  on  speaking  terms  with  us;  and 
my  prospects  looked  by  no  means  rosy. 

One  day  I  was  lunching  with  an  American  to 
whom  I  had  been  introduced  in  the  hunting-field 
and  found  myself  sitting  next  to  a  stranger.  Hear- 
ing that  he  was  Arthur  Walter,  I  thought  that  it 
would  be  fun  to  find  out  his  views  upon  my  family 
and  his  own.  He  did  not  know  who  I  was,  so  I 
determined  I  would  enjoy  what  looked  like  being  ft 
long  meal.    We  opened  in  this  manner: 

Margot:  "I  see  you  hate  Gladstone  T* 
[174] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Arthur  Walter:  "Not  at  all.  I  hate  his 
politics." 

Margot  :  "I  didn't  suppose  you  hated  the  man." 

Arthur  Walter:  "I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  have 
never  even  seen  him  or  heard  him  speak,  but  I  en- 
tirely agree  that  for  the  Duke  of  Westminster  to 
have  sold  the  Millais  portrait  of  him  merely  because 
he  does  not  approve  of  Home  Rule  shows  great 
pettiness!  I  have  of  course  never  seen  the  picture 
as  it  was  bought  privately." 

Margot:  "The  Tennants  bought  it,  so  I  suppose 
you  could  easily  see  it." 

Arthur  Walter:  "I  regret  to  say  that  I  cannot 
ever  see  this  picture." 

Margot:  "Why  not?" 

Arthur  Walter:  "Because  though  the  Ten- 
nants are  relations  of  mine,  our  family  quarrelled." 

Margot:  "What  did  they  quarrel  over?" 

Arthur  Walter:  "Oh,  it's  a  long  story!  Per- 
haps relations  quarrel  because  they  are  too  much 
alike." 

Margot:  "You  are  not  in  the  least  like  the  Ten- 
nants!" 

Arthur  Walter:  "What  makes  you  say  that? 
Do  you  know  them?" 

[175] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Makgot:  "Yes,  I  do." 

Arthur  Walter:  "In  that  case  perhaps  you 
could  take  me  to  see  the  picture." 

Margot:  "Oh,  certainly!  .  .  .  And  I  know  Mr. 
Gladstone  tool" 

Arthur  Walter:  "What  a  fortunate  young 
lady !  Perhaps  you  could  manage  to  take  me  to  see 
him  also." 

Margot  :  "All  right.  If  you  will  let  me  drive  you 
away  from  lunch  in  my  phaeton,  I  will  show  you 
the  Gladstone  picture." 

Arthur  Walter:  "Are  you  serious?  Do  you 
know  them  well  enough?" 

Margot  {nodding  confidently) :  "Yes,  yes,  don't 
you  fret!" 

After  lunch  I  drove  him  to  40  Grosvenor  Square 
and,  when  I  let  myself  in  with  my  latch-key,  he 
guessed  who  I  was,  but  any  interest  he  might  have 
felt  in  this  discovery  was  swamped  by  what  fol- 
lowed. 

I  opened  the  library  door.  Mr.  Gladstone  was 
sitting  talking  to  my  parents  under  his  own  por- 
trait. After  the  introduction  he  conversed  with 
interest  and  courtesy  to  my  new  relation  about  the 
[176] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Times  newspaper,  its  founder  and  its  great  editor, 
Delane. 


What  I  really  enjoyed  most  in  London  was  rid- 
ing in  the  Row.  I  bought  a  beautiful  hack  for  my- 
self at  Tattersalls,  15.2,  bright  bay  with  black 
points  and  so  well-balanced  that  if  I  had  ridden  it 
with  my  face  to  its  tail  I  should  hardly  have  known 
the  difference.  I  called  it  Tatts;  it  was  bold  as  a 
lion,  vain  as  a  peacock  and  extremely  moody.  One 
day,  when  I  was  mounted  to  ride  in  the  Row,  my 
papa  kept  me  waiting  so  long  at  the  door  of  40 
Grosvenor  Square  that  I  thought  I  would  ride 
Tatts  into  the  front  hall  and  give  him  a  call ;  it  only 
meant  going  up  one  step  from  the  pavement  to 
the  porch  and  another  through  the  double  doors 
held  open  by  the  footman.  Unluckily,  after  a 
somewhat  cautious  approach  by  Tatts  up  the  last 
step  into  the  marble  hall,  he  caught  his  reflection 
in  a  mirror.  At  this  he  instantly  stood  erect  upon 
his  hind  legs,  crashing  my  tall  hat  into  the  crystal 
chandelier.  His  four  legs  all  gave  way  on  the  pol- 
ished floor  and  down  we  went  with  a  noise  like  thun- 
der, the  pony  on  the  top  of  me,  the  chandelier  on  the 
top  of  him  and  my  father  and  the  footman  helpless 

[177] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

spectators.  I  was  up  and  on  Tatts'  head  in  a 
moment,  but  not  before  he  had  kicked  a  fine  old 
English  chest  into  a  jelly.  This  misadventure  up- 
set my  father's  temper  and  my  pony's  nerve,  as 
well  as  preventing  me  from  dancing  for  several 
days. 


My  second  scrape  was  more  serious.  I  engaged 
myself  to  be  married. 

If  any  young  "miss"  reads  this  autobiography 
and  wants  a  little  advice  from  a  very  old  hand,  I 
will  say  to  her,  when  a  man  threatens  to  commit 
suicide  after  you  have  refused  him,  you  may  be 
quite  sure  that  he  is  a  vain,  petty  fellow  or  a  great 
goose;  if  you  felt  any  doubts  about  your  decision 
before,  you  need  have  none  after  this  and  under  no 
circumstances  must  you  give  way.  To  marry  a 
man  out  of  pity  is  folly;  and,  if  you  think  you  are 
going  to  influence  the  kind  of  fellow  who  has 
"never  had  a  chance,  poor  devil,"  you  are  profound- 
ly mistaken.  One  can  only  influence  the  strong 
characters  in  life,  not  the  weak ;  and  it  is  the  height 
of  vanity  to  suppose  that  you  can  make  an  honest 
man  of  any  one.  My  fiance  was  neither  petty  nor 
a  goose,  but  a  humorist;  I  do  not  think  he  meant 
[178] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

me  to  take  him  seriously,  but  in  spite  of  my  high 
spirits  I  was  very  serious,  and  he  was  certainly 
more  in  love  with  me  than  any  one  had  ever  been 
before.  He  was  a  fine  rider  and  gave  me  a  mount 
wil:h  the  Beaufort  hounds. 

When  I  told  my  mother  of  my  engagement,  she 
sank  upon  a  settee,  put  a  handkerchief  to  her  eyes, 
and  said: 

"You  might  as  well  marry  your  groom !" 

I  struggled  very  hard  to  show  her  how  worldly 
she  was.  Who  wanted  money?  Who  wanted  posi- 
tion? Who  wanted  brains?  Nothing  in  fact  was 
wanted,  except  my  will! 

I  was  much  surprised,  a  few  days  later,  to  hear 
from  G.,  whom  I  met  riding  in  the  Row,  that  he 
had  called  every  day  of  the  week  but  been  told 
by  the  footman  that  I  was  out.  The  under-butler, 
who  was  devoted  to  me,  said  sadly,  when  I  com- 
plained : 

"I  am  afraid,  miss,  your  young  gentleman  has 
been  forbidden  the  house." 

Forbidden  the  house!  I  rushed  to  my  sister 
Charty  and  found  her  even  more  upset  than  my 
mother.  She  pointed  out  with  some  truth  that 
Lucy's  marriage  and  the  obstinacy  with  which  she 

[179] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

had  pursued  it  had  gone  far  towards  spoiling  her 
early  life;  but  "the  squire,"  as  Graham  Smith  was 
called,  although  a  character-part,  was  a  man  of 
perfect  education  and  charming  manners.  He  had 
beaten  all  the  boys  at  Harrow,  won  a  hundred 
steeplechases  and  loved  books;  whereas  my  young 
man  knew  little  about  anything  but  horses  and,  she 
added,  would  be  no  companion  to  me  when  I  was 
ill  or  old. 

I  flounced  about  the  room  and  said  that  forbid- 
ding him  the  house  was  grotesque  and  made  me 
ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  the  servants.  I  ended  a 
passionate  protest  by  telling  her  gravely  that  if  I 
changed  my  mind  he  would  undoubtedly  commit 
suicide.  This  awful  news  was  received  with  an 
hilarity  which  nettled  me. 

Charty:  "I  should  have  thought  you  had  too 
much  sense  of  humour  and  Mr.  G.  too  much  com- 
mon sense  for  either  of  you  to  believe  this.  He 
must  think  you  very  vain.  ..." 

I  did  not  know  at  all  what  she  meant  and  said 
with  the  utmost  gravity: 

"The  terrible  thing  is  I  believe  that  I  have  given 
him  a  false  impression  of  my  feelings  for  him;  for, 
though  I  love  him  very  much,  I  would  never  have 
[180] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

promised  to  marry  him  if  he  had  not  said  he  was 
going  to  kill  himself."  Clasping  my  two  hands 
together  and  greatly  moved,  I  concluded,  "If  I 
break  it  off  now  and  anything  should  happen,  my 
life  is  over  and  I  shall  feel  as  if  I  had  murdered 
him." 

Charty  {looking  at  me  with  a  tender  smile) :  "I 
should  risk  it,  darling." 

•         •••••• 

A  propos  of  vanity,  in  the  interests  of  my  pub- 
lisher I  must  here  digress  and  relate  the  two  great- 
est compliments  that  I  ever  had  paid  to  me.  Al- 
though I  cannot  listen  to  reading  out  loud,  I  have 
always  been  fond  of  sermons  and  constantly  went 
to  hear  Canon  Eyton,  a  great  preacher,  who  col- 
lected large  and  attentive  congregations  in  his 
church  in  Sloane  Street.  I  nearly  always  went 
alone,  as  my  family  preferred  listening  to  Stopford 
Brooke  or  going  to  our  pew  in  St.  George's,  Han- 
over Square. 

One  of  my  earliest  recollections  is  of  my  mother 
and  father  taking  me  to  hear  Liddon  preach;  I 
remember  nothing  at  all  about  it  except  that  I  swal- 
lowed a  hook  and  eye  during  the  service:  not  a  very 
flattering  tribute  to  the  great  divine! 

[181] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Eyton  was  a  striking  preacher  and  his  church  was 
always  crowded.  I  had  to  stand  a  long  time  be- 
fore I  could  ever  get  a  seat.  One  morning  I  re- 
ceived this  letter: 

Deae  Miss  Tennant, 

I  hope  you  will  excuse  this  written  by  a  stranger. 
I  have  often  observed  you  listening  to  the  sermon 
in  our  church.  My  wife  and  I  are  going  abroad, 
so  we  offer  you  our  pew;  you  appear  to  admire 
Eyton's  preaching  as  much  as  we  do — we  shall  be 
very  glad  if  you  can  use  it. 

Yours  truly, 

Francis  Buxton. 

The  other  compliment  was  also  a  letter  from  a 

stranger.    It  was  dirty  and  misspelt,  and  enclosed 

a  bill  from  an  undertaker;  the  bill  came  to  seven 

pounds  and  the  letter  ran  as  follows: 

Honoured  Miss  father  passed  away  quite  peace- 
ful last  Saturday,  he  set  store  by  his  funeral  and 
often  told  us  as  much  sweeping  a  crossing  had  paid 
him  pretty  regular,  but  he  left  nothing  as  one  might 
speak  of,  and  so  we  was  put  to  it  for  the  funeral, 
as  it  throws  back  so  on  a  house  not  to  bury  your 
father  proper,  I  remember  you  and  all  he  thought 
of  you  and  told  the  undertaker  to  go  ahead  with 
the  thing  for  as  you  was  my  fathers  friend  I  hoped 
you  would  understand  and  excuse  me. 

This  was  from  the  son  of  our  one-legged  crossing- 
sweeper,  and  I  need  hardly  say  I  owed  him  a  great 
[182] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

deal  more  than  seven  pounds.  He  had  taken  all 
our  love-letters,  presents  and  messages  to  and  fro 
from  morning  till  night  for  years  past  and  was  a 
man  who  thoroughly  understood  life. 


To  return  to  my  fiance,  I  knew  things  could  not 
go  on  as  they  were ;  scenes  bored  me  and  I  was  quite 
incapable  of  sustaining  a  campaign  of  white  lies ;  so 
I  reassured  my  friends  and  relieved  my  relations 
by  telling  the  young  man  that  I  could  not  marry 
him.  He  gave  me  his  beautiful  mare,  Molly  Bawn, 
sold  all  his  hunters  and  went  to  Australia.  His 
hair  when  he  returned  to  England  two  years  later 
was  grey.  I  have  heard  of  this  happening,  but  have 
only  known  of  it  twice  in  my  life,  once  on  this  occa- 
sion and  the  other  time  when  the  boiler  of  the 
Thunderer  burst  in  her  trial  trip;  the  engine  was 
the  first  Government  order  ever  given  to  my 
father's  firm  of  Humphreys  &  Tennant  and  the 
accident  made  a  great  sensation.  My  father  told 
me  that  several  men  had  been  killed  and  that  young 
Humphreys'  hair  had  turned  white.  I  remember 
this  incident  very  well,  as  when  I  gave  Papa  the 
telegram  in  the  billiard  room  at  Glen  he  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands  and  sank  on  the  sofa  in  tears. 

[183] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

About  this  time  Sir  William  Miller,  a  friend  of 
the  family,  suggested  to  my  parents  that  his  eldest 
son — a  charming  young  fellow,  since  dead — should 
marry  me.  I  doubt  if  the  young  man  knew  me  by 
sight,  but  in  spite  of  this  we  were  invited  to  stay  at 
Manderston,  much  to  my  father's  delight. 

On  the  evening  of  our  arrival  my  host  said  to  me 
in  his  broad  Scottish  accent: 

"Margy,  will  you  marry  my  son  Jim?^' 

"My  dear  Sir  WilUam,"  I  replied,  "your  son  Jim 
has  never  spoken  to  me  in  his  life !" 

Sir  William  :  "He  is  shy." 

I  assured  him  that  this  was  not  so  and  that  I 
thought  his  son  might  be  allowed  to  choose  for  him- 
self, adding: 

"You  are  like  my  father.  Sir  William,  and  think 
every  one  wants  to  marry." 

Sir  William  :  "So  they  do,  don't  they  ?"  ( With 
a  sly  look,)  "I  am  sure  they  all  want  to  marry  you." 

Margot  {mischievously):  "I  wonder!" 

Sir  William  :  "Margy,  would  you  rather  marry 
me  or  break  your  leg?" 

Margot:  Break  both,  Sir  William." 

After  this  promising  beginning  I  was  introduced 
[184] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

to  the  young  man.  It  was  impossible  to  pay  me  less 
attention  than  he  did. 

Sir  William  had  two  daughters,  one  of  whom  was 
anxious  to  marry  a  major  quartered  in  Edinburgh, 
but  he  was  robustly  and  rudely  against  this,  in  con- 
sequence of  which  the  girl  was  unhappy.  She  took 
me  into  her  confidence  one  afternoon  in  their 
schoolroom. 

It  was  dark  and  the  door  was  half  open,  with  a 
bright  light  in  the  passage;  Miss  Miller  was  telling 
me  with  simple  sincerity  exactly  what  she  felt  and 
what  her  father  felt  about  the  major.  I  suddenly 
observed  Sir  William  listening  to  our  conversation 
behind  the  hinges  of  the  door.  Being  an  enormous 
man,  he  had  screwed  himself  into  a  cramped  pos- 
ture and  I  was  curious  to  see  how  long  he  would 
stick  it  out.  It  was  indiqwe  that  I  should  bring 
home  the  proverbial  platitude  that  "listeners  never 
hear  any  good  of  themselves." 

Miss  Miller:  "You  see,  there  is  only  one  real 
objection  to  him,  he  is  not  rich!" 

I  told  her  that  as  she  would  be  rich  some  day,  it 
did  not  matter.  Why  should  the  rich  marry  the 
rich?    It  was  grotesque !  I  intended  to  marry  what- 

[185] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

ever  kind  of  man  I  cared  for  and  papa  would  cer- 
tainly find  the  money. 

Miss  Millee  {not  listemng) :  "He  loves  me  so! 
And  he  says  he  will  kill  himself  if  I  give  him  up 


now." 


Margot  {with  vigour) :  "Oh,  if  he  is  that  sort  of 
man,  a  really  brave  fellow,  there  is  only  one  thing 
for  you  both  to  dol" 

Miss  Miller  {leaning  forward  with  hands 
clasped  and  looking  at  me  earnestly) :  "Oh,  tell  me, 
tell  me!" 

Margot:  "Are  you  sure  he  is  a  man  of  dash?  Is 
he  really  unworldly  and  devoted?  Not  afraid  of 
what  people  say?" 

Miss  Miller  {eagerly):  "No,  no!  Yes,  yes! 
He  would  die  for  me,  indeed  he  would,  and  is  afraid 
of  no  one!" 

Margot  {luring  her  on) :  "I  expect  he  is  very 
much  afraid  of  your  father." 

Miss  Miller  {hesitating) :  "Papa  is  so  rude  to 
him." 

Margot  {with  scorn) :  "Well,  if  your  major  is 
afraid  of  your  father,  I  think  nothing  of  him!" 
{Slight  movement  behind  the  door.) 
[186] 


MARGOT   ASQUITII  S   TWO    CHILDREN,   ANTHONY   AND 
ELIZABETH    (PRINCESS   BIBESCO) 


raiNCESS  BIBKSCO.    MAROOT  ASQUITH's  ONLY   DAUOHTKB,   WHO 
MARRIKD  PRINCE   BIUE8CO,  ROUMANIAN   DIPLOMAT 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Miss  Miller  {impiddvely) :  "He  is  afraid  of 
no  one!    But  Papa  never  talks  to  him." 

Margot  {very  deliberately) :  "Well,  there  is 
only  one  thing  for  you  to  do;  and  that  is  to  run 
away!"     {Sensation  behind  the  door.) 

Miss  Miller  {with  determination,  her  eyes 
sparkling) :  "If  he  will  do  it,  I  will!  But  oh,  dear! 
.  .  .  What  will  people  say?  How  they  will 
talk!" 

M ARGOT  {lightly) :  "Oh,  of  course,  if  you  care 
for  what  people  say,  you  will  be  done  all  through 
life!" 

Miss  Miller:  "Papa  would  be  furious,  you 
know,  and  would  curse  fearfully!" 

To  this  I  answered: 

"I  know  your  father  well  and  I  don't  believe  he 
would  care  a  damn!" 

I  got  up  suddenly,  as  if  going  to  the  door,  at 
which  there  was  a  sound  of  a  scuffle  in  the  corridor. 

Miss  Miller  {alarmed  and  getting  up) :  "What 
was  that  noise  ?  Can  any  one  have  been  in  the  pas- 
sage? Could  they  have  heard  us?  Let  us  shut  the 
door." 

Margot:  "No,  don't  shut  the  door,  it's  so  hot 
and  we  shan't  be  able  to  talk  alone  agaui." 

[187] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Miss  Miller  (relieved  and  sitting  down) :  "You 
are  very  good.  ...  I  must  think  carefully 
over  what  you  have  said." 

Margot:  "Anyhow,  tell  your  major  that  I  know 
your  father;  he  is  really  fond  of  me." 

Miss  Miller:  "Oh,  yes,  I  heard  him  ask  your 
father  if  he  would  exchange  you  for  us." 

Margot:  "That's  only  his  chaff;  he  is  devoted  to 
you.  But  what  he  likes  about  me  is  my  dash :  noth- 
ing your  papa  admires  so  much  as  courage.  If  the 
major  has  pluck  enough  to  carry  you  off  to  Edin- 
burgh, marry  you  in  a  registrar's  office  and  come 
back  and  tell  your  family  the  same  day,  he  will 
forgive  everything,  give  you  a  glorious  allowance 
and  you'll  be  happy  ever  after!  .  .  .  Now,  my 
dear,  I  must  go." 

I  got  up  very  slowly,  and,  putting  my  hands  on 
her  shoulders,  said: 

"Pull  up  your  socks,  Amy!" 

I  need  hardly  say  the  passage  was  deserted  when 
I  opened  the  door.  I  went  downstairs,  took  up  the 
Scotsman  and  found  Sir  William  writing  in  the 
hall.  He  was  grumpy  and  restless  and  at  last,  put- 
ting down  his  pen,  he  came  up  to  me  and  said,  in 
his  broad  Scotch  accent: 
[188] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"Margy,  will  you  go  round  the  garden  with  me?" 
"Margy":  "Yes,  if  we  can  sit  down  alone  and 

have  a  good  talk." 

SiE  William    (delighted):  "What   about  the 

summerhouse?" 

"Margy":  "All  right,  I'll  run  up  and  put  on 

my  hat  and  meet  you  here." 

When  we  got  to  the  summer-house  he  said : 
"Margy,  my  daughter  Amy's  in  love  with  a 

pauper." 

"Margy":  "What  does  that  matter?" 

Sir  William:  "He's  not  at  all  clever." 

"Margy":  "How  do  you  know?" 

Sir  William:  "What  do  you  mean?" 

"Margy":  "None  of  us  are  good  judges  of  the 

people  we  dislike." 

Sir  William  {cautiotusly) :  "I  would  much  like 

your  advice  on  all  this  affair  and  I  want  you  to 

have  a  word  with  my  girl  Amy  and  tell  her  just 

what  you  think  on  the  matter." 
"Margy":  "I  have." 

Sir  William:  "What  did  she  say  to  you?" 
"Margy":  "Really,    Sir   William,    would   you 

have  me  betray  confidences?" 

[189] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Sir  William:  "Surely  you  can  tell  me  what  you 
said,  anyway,  without  betraying  her." 

"Margy"  {looking  at  Mm  steadily) :  "Well, 
what  do  you  suppose  you  would  say  in  the  circum- 
stances? If  a  well-brought-up  girl  told  you  that 
she  was  in  love  with  a  man  that  her  parents  dis- 
liked, a  man  who  was  unable  to  keep  her  and  with 
no  prospects     •     .     ." 

SiE  WxiLiAM  {interrupting) :  "Never  mind 
what  I  should  say!    What  did  you  say?" 

"Margy"  {evasively):  "The  thing  is  unthink- 
able! Good  girls  like  yours  could  never  go  against 
their  parents'  wishes!  Men  who  can't  keep  their 
wives  should  not  marry  at  all.     .     .     ." 

Sir  William  {with  great  violence,  seizing  my 
hands) :  '"What  did  you  sayf 

"Margy"  {with  a  sweet  smile) :  "I'm  afraid,  Sir 
William,  you  are  changing  your  mind  and,  instead 
of  leaning  on  my  advice,  you  begin  to  suspect  it." 

Sir  William  {very  loud  and  beside  himself  with 
rage) :  "WHAT  DID  YOU  SAY?" 

"Margy"  {coolly,  putting  her  hand  on  his) :  "I 
can't  think  why  you  are  so  excited!    If  I  told  you 
that  I  had  said,  *Give  it  all  up,  my  dear,  and  don't 
vex  your  aged  father,'  what  would  you  sa^?" 
[190] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Sir  William  {getting  up  cmd  flinging  my  hand 
away  from  Mm) :  "Hoots!    You're  a  liar  I" 

"Margy":  "No,  I'm  not,  Sir  WilUam;  but, 
when  I  see  people  listening  at  doors,  I  give  them  a 
run  for  their  money." 


I  had  another  vicarious  proposal.  One  night, 
dining  with  the  BischofFheims,  I  was  introduced  for 
the  first  time  to  Baron  Hirsch,  an  Austrian  who 
lived  in  Paris.  He  took  me  in  to  dinner  and  a 
young  man  whom  I  had  met  out  hunting  sat  on  the 
other  side  of  me. 

I  was  listening  impressively  to  the  latter,  holding 
my  champagne  in  my  hand,  when  the  footman  in 
serving  one  of  the  dishes  bumped  my  glass  against 
my  chest  and  all  its  contents  went  down  the  front 
of  my  ball-dress.  I  felt  iced  to  the  bone;  but,  as  I 
was  thin,  I  prayed  profoundly  that  my  pink  bodice 
would  escape  being  marked.  I  continued  in  the 
same  position,  holding  my  empty  glass  \xx  iny  hand 
as  if  nothing  had  happened,  hoping  that  no  one  had 
observed  me  and  trying  to  appear  interested  in  the 
young  man's  description  of  the  awful  dangers  he 
had  run  when  finding  himself  alone  with  hounds. 

[191] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

A  few  minutes  later  Baron  Hirsch  turned  to  me 
and  said: 

"Aren't  you  very  cold?" 

I  said  that  I  was,  but  that  it  did  not  matter;  what 
I  really  minded  was  spoiling  my  dress  and,  as  I 
was  not  a  kangaroo,  I  feared  the  worst.  After  this 
we  entered  into  conversation  and  he  told  me  among 
other  things  that,  when  he  had  been  pilled  for  a 
sporting  club  in  Paris,  he  had  revenged  himself  by 
buying  the  club  and  the  site  upon  which  it  was 
built,  to  which  I  observed: 

"You  must  be  very  rich." 

He  asked  me  where  I  had  lived  and  seemed  sur- 
prised that  I  had  never  heard  of  him. 

The  next  time  we  met  each  other  was  in  Paris. 
I  lunched  with  him  and  his  wife  and  he  gave  me  his 
opera  box  and  mounted  me  in  the  Bois  de  Bou- 
logne. 

One  day  he  invited  me  to  dine  with  him  tete-a-tete 
at  the  Cafe  Anglais  and,  as  my  father  and  mother 
were  out,  I  accepted.  I  felt  a  certain  curiosity  about 
this  invitation,  because  my  host  in  his  letter  had 
given  me  the  choice  of  several  other  dates  in  the 
event  of  my  being  engaged  that  night.  When  I  ar- 
rived at  the  Cafe  Anglais  Baron  Hirsch  took  off 
[192] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

my  cloak  and  conducted  me  into  a  private  room. 
He  reminded  me  of  our  first  meeting,  said  that  he 
had  been  much  struck  by  my  self-control  over  the 
iced  champagne  and  went  on  to  ask  if  I  knew  why 
he  had  invited  me  to  dine  with  him.    I  said : 

"I  have  not  the  slightest  idea!" 

Baron  Hirsch:  "Because  I  want  you  to  marry 
my  son,  Lucien.  He  is  quite  unlike  me,  he  is  very 
respectable  and  hates  money;  he  likes  books  and 
collects  manuscripts  and  other  things,  and  is  highly 
educated." 

Margot:  "Your  son  is  the  man  with  the  beard, 
who  wears  glasses  and  collects  coins,  isn't  he?" 

Baron  Hirsch  {thinking  my  description  rather 
dreary) :  "Quite  so!  You  talked  to  him  the  other 
day  at  our  house.  But  he  has  a  charming  disposi- 
tion and  has  been  a  good  son;  and  I  am  quite  sure 
that,  if  you  would  take  a  little  trouble,  he  would  be 
devoted  to  you  and  make  you  an  excellent  husband : 
he  does  not  like  society,  or  racing,  or  any  of  the 
things  that  I  care  for." 

Margot:  "Poor  man!  I  don't  suppose  he  would 
even  care  much  for  me!    I  hate  coins!" 

Baron  Hirsch:  "Oh,  but  j/ou  would  widen  his 
interests !    He  is  shy  and  I  want  him  to  make  a 

[193] 


k 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

good  marriage;  and  above  all  he  must  marry  an 
Englishwoman." 

Margot:  "Has  he  ever  been  in  love?" 

Baron  Hirsch:  *'No,  he  has  never  been  in  love; 
but  a  lot  of  women  make  up  to  him  and  I  don't  want 
him  to  be  married  for  his  money  by  some  design- 
ing girl." 

Margot:  "Over  here  I  suppose  that  sort  of  thing 
might  happen;  I  don't  believe  it  would  in  Eng- 
land." 

Baron  Hirsch:  "How  can  you  say  such  a  thing 
to  me  ?  London  society  cares  more  for  money  than 
any  other  in  the  world,  as  I  know  to  my  cost  I  You 
may  take  it  from  me  that  a  young  man  who  will 
be  as  rich  as  Lucien  can  marry  almost  any  girl  he 
likes." 

Margot:  "I  doubt  it!  English  girls  don't  marry 
for  money  I" 

Baron  Hirsch:  "Nonsense,  my  dear!  They  are 
like  other  people;  it  is  only  the  young  that  can  af- 
ford to  despise  money!" 

Margot:  "Then  I  hope  that  I  shall  be  young  for 
a  very  long  time." 

Baron  Hirsch  (smiling) :  "I  don't  think  you 
will  ever  be  disappointed  in  that  hope;  but  surely 
[194] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

you  wouldn't  like  to  be  a  poor  man's  wife  and  live 
in  the  suburbs  ?  Just  think  what  it  would  be  if  you 
could  not  hunt  or  ride  in  the  Row  in  a  beautiful 
habit  or  have  wonderful  dresses  from  Worth !  You 
would  hate  to  be  dowdy  and  obscure!" 

*'That,"  I  answered  energetically,  "could  never 
happen  to  me." 

Baron  Hirsch:  "Why  not?" 

Margot:  "Because  I  have  too  many  friends." 

Baron  Hirsch:  "And  enemies?" 

Margot  {thoughtfully):  "Perhaps.  ...  I 
don't  know  about  that.  I  never  notice  whether 
people  dislike  me  or  not.  After  all,  you  took  a 
fancy  to  me  the  first  time  we  met ;  why  should  not 
other  people  do  the  same?  Do  you  think  I  should 
not  improve  on  acquaintance?" 

Baron  Hirsch  :  "How  can  you  doubt  that,  when 
I  have  just  asked  you  to  marry  my  son?" 

Margot:  "What  other  English  girl  is  there  that 
you  would  like  for  a  daughter-in-law?" 

Baron  Hirsch:  "Lady  Katie  Lambton,*  Dur- 
ham's sister." 

Margot:  "I  don't  know  her  at  all.  Is  she  like 
me?" 

*The  present  Duchess  of  Leeds. 

[195] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Baron  Hirsch:  "Not  in  the  least;  but  you  and 
she  are  the  only  girls  I  have  met  that  I  could  wish 
my  son  to  marry." 

I  longed  to  know  what  my  rival  was  like,  but  all 
he  could  tell  me  was  that  she  was  lovely  and  clever 
and  mignorme,  to  which  I  said : 

"But  she  sounds  exactly  like  me  I" 

This  made  him  laugh : 

"I  don't  believe  you  know  in  the  least  what  you 
are  like,"  he  said. 

Margot:  "You  mean  I  have  no  idea  how  plain 
I  am?  But  what  an  odd  man  you  are!  If  I  don't 
know  what  I'm  like,  I  am  sure  ypu  can't!  How  do 
you  know  that  I  am  not  just  the  sort  of  adventuress 
you  dread  most?  I  might  marry  your  son  and,  so 
far  from  widening  his  interests,  as  you  suggest, 
keep  him  busy  with  his  coins  while  I  went  about 
everywhere,  enjoying  myself  and  spending  all  your 
money.  In  spite  of  what  you  say,  some  man  might 
fall  in  love  with  me,  you  know!  Some  delightful, 
clever  man.  And  then  Lucien's  happiness  would 
be  over." 

Baron  Hirsch:  "I  do  not  believe  you  would 
ever  cheat  your  husband." 
[196] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Margot:  "You  never  can  tell!  Would  Lady 
Katie  Lambton  marry  for  money?" 

Baron  Hirsch:  "To  be  perfectly  honest  with 
you,  I  don't  think  she  would." 

Margot  :  "There  you  are !  I  know  heaps  of  girls 
who  wouldn't ;  anyhow,  I  never  would !" 

Baron  Hirsch:  "You  are  in  love  with  some  one 
else,  perhaps,  are  you?" 

It  so  happened  that  in  the  winter  I  had  fallen  in 
love  with  a  man  out  hunting  and  was  counting  the 
hours  till  I  could  meet  him  again,  so  the  question 
annoyed  me;  I  thought  it  vulgar  and  said,  with 
some  dignity: 

"If  I  am,  I  have  never  told  him  so." 

My  dignity  was  lost,  however,  on  my  host,  who 
persisted.  I  did  not  want  to  give  myself  away,  so, 
simulating  a  tone  of  light  banter,  I  said : 

"If  I  have  not  confided  in  the  person  most  inter- 
ested, why  should  I  tell  you?" 

This  was  not  one  of  my  happiest  efforts,  for  he 
instantly  replied: 

"Then  he  is  interested  in  you,  is  he?  Do  I  know 
him?" 

I  felt  angry  and  told  him  that,  because  I  did  not 
want  to  marry  his  son,  it  did  not  at  all  follow  that 

[19.7] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

my  affections  were  engaged  elsewhere;  and  I 
added: 

"I  only  hope  that  Mr.  Lucien  is  not  as  curious  as 
you  are,  or  I  should  have  a  very  poor  time ;  there  is 
nothing  I  should  hate  as  much  as  a  jealous 
husband." 

Baeon  Hirsch:  "I  don't  believe  you!  If  it's 
tiresome  to  have  a  jealous  husband,  it  must  be  hu- 
miliating to  have  one  who  is  not." 

I  saw  he  was  trying  to  conciliate  me,  so  I  changed 
the  subject  to  racing.  Being  a  shrewd  man,  he 
thought  he  might  find  out  whom  I  was  in  love  with 
and  encouraged  me  to  go  on.  I  told  him  I  knew 
Fred  Archer  well,  as  we  had  hunted  together  in  the 
Vale  of  White  Horse.  He  asked  me  if  he  had  ever 
given  me  a  racing  tip.  I  told  him  the  following 
story: 

One  day,  at  Ascot,  some  of  my  impecunious  Mel- 
ton friends, — having  heard  a  rumour  that  Archer, 
who  was  riding  in  the  race,  had  made  a  bet  on  the 
result — came  and  begged  me  to  find  out  from  him 
what  horse  was  going  to  win.  I  did  not  listen 
much  to  them  at  first,  as  I  was  staring  about 
at  the  horses,  the  parasols  and  the  people,  but  my 
friends  were  very  much  in  earnest  and  began  press- 
[198] 


FAMOUS  JOCKEY  WITH  WHOM  MARGOT  ASQUITH  HUNTED  IN  THE 
VALE  OF  WHITE  HORSE 


[199] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

ing  me  in  lowered  voices  to  be  as  quick  as  I  could, 
as  they  thought  that  Archer  was  on  the  move.  It 
was  a  grilling  day;  most  men  had  handkerchiefs  or 
cabbages  under  their  hats;  and  the  dried-up  grass 
in  the  Paddock  was  the  colour  of  pea-soup.  I  saw 
Fred  Archer  standing  in  his  cap  and  jacket  with 
his  head  hanging  down,  talking  to  a  well-groomed, 
under-sized  little  man,  while  the  favourite — a  great, 
slashing,  lazy  horse — was  walking  round  and  round 
with  the  evenness  of  a  metronome,  I  went  boldly 
up  to  him  and  reminded  him  of  how  we  had  can- 
noned at  a  fence  in  the  V.W.H.  Fred  Archer  had 
a  face  of  carved  ivory,  like  the  top  of  an  umbrella ; 
he  could  turn  it  into  a  mask  or  illuminate  it  with  a 
smile;  he  had  long  thin  legs,  a  perfect  figure  and 
wonderful  charm.  He  kept  a  secretary,  a  re- 
volver and  two  valets  and  was  a  god  among  the 
gentry  and  the  jockeys.  After  giving  a  slight  wink 
at  the  under-sized  man,  he  turned  away  from  him 
to  me  and,  on  hearing  what  I  had  to  say,  whispered 
a  magic  name  in  my  ear.     .     .     . 

I  was  a  popular  woman  that  night  in  Melton. 

Baron  Hirsch  returned  to  the  charge  later  on; 
and  I  told  him  definitely  that  I  was  the  last  girl  in 
the  world  to  suit  his  son. 

[201] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

It  is  only  fair  to  the  memory  of  Lucien  Hirsch  to 
say  that  he  never  cared  the  least  about  me.  He  died 
a  short  time  after  this  and  some  one  said  to  the 
Baron: 

"What  a  fool  Margot  Tennant  was  not  to  have 
married  your  son !  She  would  be  a  rich  widow  now." 

At  which  he  said: 

"No  one  would  die  if  they  married  Margot 
Tennant." 


[202] 


CHAPTER  VII 

PHOENIX  PARK  MURDERS REMEDIES  FOR  IRELAND 

TELEPATHY   AND    PLANCHETTE ^VISIT    TO   BLA- 

VATSKY SIR  CHARLES  DILKE's   KISS ^VISITS  TO 

GLADSTONE — THE    LATE    LORD    SALISBURY'S    PO- 
LITICAL PROPHECIES 

THE  political  event  that  caused  the  greatest 
sensation  when  I  was  a  girl  was  the  murder  of 
Mr.  Burke  and  Lord  Frederick  Cavendish  on  May 
6,  1882.  We  were  in  London  at  the  time;  and 
the  news  came  through  on  a  Sunday.  Alfred 
Lyttelton  told  me  that  Lady  Frederick  Cavendish's 
butler  had  broken  it  to  her  by  rushing  into  the  room 
<saying: 

"They  have  knifed  his  lordship!" 

The  news  spread  from  West  to  East  and  North 
to  South;  groups  of  people  stood  talking  in  the 
middle  of  the  streets  without  their  hats  and  every 
one  felt  that  this  terrible  outrage  was  bound  tb  have 
consequences  far  beyond  the  punishment  of  the 
criminals. 

These  murders  in  the  Phoenix  Park  tended  to 

[203] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

confirm  Gladstone  in  his  belief  that  the  Irish  were 
people  whom  we  did  not  understand  and  that  they 
had  better  be  encouraged  to  govern  themselves. 
He  hoped  to  convert  his  colleagues  to  a  like  con- 
viction, but  Mr.  Chamberlain  and  he  disagreed. 

Just  as  I  ask  myself  what  would  have  been  the 
outcome  of  the  Paris  Conference  if  the  British  had 
made  the  League  of  Nations  a  genuine  first  plank 
in  their  programme  instead  of  a  last  postscript,  so 
I  wonder  what  would  have  happened  if  Chamber- 
lain had  stuck  to  Gladstone  at  that  time.  Glad- 
stone had  all  the  playing  cards — as  President  Wil- 
son had — and  was  not  likely  to  under-declare  his 
hand,  but  he  was  a  much  older  man  and  I  cannot 
but  think  that  if  they  had  remained  together  Cham- 
berlain would  not  have  been  thrown  into  the  arms 
of  the  Tories  and  the  reversion  of  the  Premiership 
must  have  gone  to  him.  It  seems  strange  to  me 
that  the  leaders  of  the  great  Conservative  party 
have  so  often  been  hired  bravos  or  wandering  min- 
strels with  whom  it  can  share  no  common  convic- 
tion. I  never  cease  wondering  why  it  cannot  pro- 
duce a  man  of  its  own  faith.  There  must  be  some- 
thing inherent  in  its  creed  that  produces  sterility. 

When  Mr.  Gladstone  went  in  for  Home  Rule, 
[204] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

society  was  rent  from  top  to  bottom  and  even  the 
most  devoted  friends  quarrelled  over  it.  Our  fam- 
ily was  as  much  divided  as  any  other. 

One  day,  when  Lord  Spencer  was  staying  at 
Glen,  I  was  sent  out  of  the  room  at  dinner  for  say- 
ing that  Gladstone  had  made  a  Balaclava  blunder 
with  his  stupid  Home  Rule;  we  had  all  got  so 
heated  over  the  discussion  that  I  was  glad  enough 
to  obey  my  papa.  A  few  minutes  later  he  came  out 
full  of  penitence  to  see  if  he  had  hurt  my  feelings; 
he  found  me  sitting  on  the  billiard-table  smoking 
one  of  his  best  cigars.  I  gave  him  a  good  hug,  and 
told  him  I  would  join  him  when  I  had  finished 
smoking;  he  said  he  was  only  too  glad  that  his 
cigars  were  appreciated  and  returned  to  the  dining- 
room  in  high  spirits. 

Events  have  proved  that  I  was  quite  wrong  about 
Home  Rule.  Now  that  we  have  discovered  what 
the  consequences  are  of  withholding  from  Ireland 
the  self-government  which  for  generations  she  has 
asked  for,  can  we  doubt  that  Gladstone  should  have 
been  vigorously  backed  in  his  attempt  to  still  the 
controversy?  As  it  is,  our  follies  in  Ireland  have 
cursed  the  political  life  of  this  country  for  years. 
Some  one  has  said,  "Ulrlande  est  une  maladie  in* 

[205] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

curable  mais  jamais  mortelle*';  and,  if  she  can  sur- 
vive the  present  regime,  no  one  will  doubt  the  truth 
of  the  saying. 

In  May,  June  and  July,  1914,  within  three 
months  of  the  war,  every  donkey  in  London  was 
cutting,  or  trying  to  cut  us,  for  wishing  to  settle  this 
very  same  Irish  question.  My  presence  at  a  ball 
with  Elizabeth — ^who  was  seventeen — was  consid- 
ered not  only  provocative  to  others  but  a  danger  to 
myself.  All  the  brains  of  all  the  landlords  in  Ire- 
land, backed  by  half  the  brains  of  half  the  land- 
lords in  England,  had  ranged  themselves  behind 
Sir  Edward  Carson,  his  army  and  his  Covenant. 
Earnest  Irish  patriots  had  turned  their  fields  into 
camps  and  their  houses  into  hospitals;  aristocratic 
females  had  been  making  bandages  for  months, 
when  von  Kiihlmann,  Secretary  of  the  German 
Embassy  in  London,  went  over  to  pay  his  first 
visit  to  Ireland.  On  his  return  he  told  me  with 
conviction  that,  from  all  he  had  heard  and  seen  out 
there  during  a  long  tour,  nothing  but  a  miracle 
could  avert  civil  war,  to  which  I  replied: 

"Shocking  as  that  would  be,  it  would  not  break 
England." 
[206] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Our  follies  in  Ireland  have  cursed  not  only  the 
political  but  the  social  life  of  this  country. 

It  was  not  until  the  political  ostracisms  over 
Home  Rule  began  all  over  again  in  1914  that  I 
realised  how  powerful  socially  my  friends  and  I 
were  in  the  'eighties. 

Mr.  Balfour  once  told  me  that,  before  our  par- 
ticular group  of  friends — generally  known  as  the 
Souls — appeared  in  London,  prominent  politicians 
of  opposite  parties  seldom  if  ever  met  one  another ; 
and  he  added: 

"No  history  of  our  time  will  be  complete  unless 
the  influence  of  the  Souls  upon  society  is  dispas- 
sionately and  accurately  recorded." 

The  same  question  of  Home  Rule  that  threw 
London  back  to  the  old  parochialisms  in  1914  was 
at  its  height  in  1886  and  1887;  but  at  our  house  in 
Grosvenor  Square  and  later  in  those  of  the  Souls, 
everyone  met — Randolph  Churchill,  Gladstone, 
Asquith,  Morley,  Chamberlain,  Balfour,  Rosebery, 
Salisbury,  Hartington,  Harcourt  and,  I  might  add, 
jockeys,  actors,  the  Prince  of  Wales  and  every  am- 
bassador in  London.  We  never  cut  anybody — 
not  even  our  friends — or  thought  it  amusing  or  dis- 

[207] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

tinguished  to  make  people  feel  uncomfortable;  and 
our  decision  not  to  sacrifice  private  friendship  to 
public  politics  was  envied  in  every  capital  in 
Europe.  It  made  London  the  centre  of  the  most 
interesting  society  in  the  world  and  gave  men  of 
different  tempers  and  opposite  beliefs  an  opportun- 
ity of  discussing  them  without  heat  and  without  re- 
porters. There  is  no  individual  or  group  among 
us  powerful  enough  to  succeed  in  having  a  salon  of 
this  kind  to-day. 

The  daring  of  that  change  in  society  cannot  be 
over-estimated.  The  unconscious  and  accidental 
grouping  of  brilliant,  sincere  and  loyal  friends  like 
ourselves  gave  rise  to  so  much  jealousy  and  dis- 
cussion that  I  shall  devote  a  chapter  of  this  book 
to  the  Souls. 

It  was  at  No.  40  Grosvenor  Square  that  Glad- 
stone met  Lord  Randolph  Churchill.  The  latter 
had  made  himself  famous  by  attacking  and  abusing 
the  Grand  Old  Man  with  such  virulence  that  every 
one  thought  it  impossible  that  they  could  ever  meet 
in  intimacy  again.  I  was  not  awed  by  this,  but 
asked  them  to  a  luncheon  party ;  and  they  both  ac- 
cepted. I  need  hardly  say  that  when  they  met  they 
talked  with  fluency  and  interest,  for  it  was  as  im- 
[208] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

possible  for  Gladstone  to  be  gauche  or  rude  as  it 
was  for  any  one  to  be  ill  at  ease  with  Randolph 
Churchill.  The  news  of  their  lunching  with  us 
spread  all  over  London;  and  the  West-end  buzzed 
round  me  with  questions :  all  the  political  ladies,  in- 
cluding the  Duchess  of  Manchester,  were  torn  with 
curiosity  to  know  whether  Randolph  was  going  to 
join  the  Liberal  Party.  I  refused  to  gratify  their 
curiosity,  but  managed  to  convey  a  general  impres- 
sion that  at  any  moment  our  ranks,  having  lost  Mr. 
Chamberlain,  were  going  to  be  reinforced  by  Lord 
Randolph  Churchill. 

The  Duchess  of  Manchester  (who  became  the 
late  Duchess  of  Devonshire)  was  the  last  great  po- 
litical lady  in  London  society  as  I  have  known  it. 
The  secret  of  her  power  lay  not  only  in  her  posi- 
tion— ^many  people  are  rich  and  grand,  gay  and 
clever  and  live  in  big  houses — ^but  in  her  elasticity, 
her  careful  criticisms,  her  sense  of  justice  and  dis- 
cretion. She  not  only  kept  her  own  but  other  peo- 
ple's secrets;  and  she  added  to  a  considerable  ef- 
frontery and  intrepid  courage,  real  kindness  of 
heart.  I  have  heard  her  reprove  and  mildly  ridicule 
all  her  guests,  both  at  Compton  Place  and  at  Chats- 
worth,  from  the  Prince  of  Wales  to  the  Prime  Min- 

[209] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

ister.  I  asked  her  once  what  she  thought  of  a  cer- 
tain famous  lady,  whose  arrogance  and  vulgarity 
had  annoyed  us  all,  to  which  she  answered: 

"I  dislike  her  too  much  to  be  a  good  judge  of 
her." 

One  evening,  many  years  after  the  time  of  which 
I  am  writing,  she  was  dining  with  us,  and  we  were 
talking  tete-a-tete. 

"Margot,"  she  said,  "you  and  I  are  very  much 
alike." 

It  was  impossible  to  imagine  two  more  different 
beings  than  myself  and  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire 
— ^morally,  physically  or  intellectually — so  I  asked 
her  what  possible  reason  she  had  for  thinking  so,  to 
which  she  answered: 

"We  have  both  married  angels;  when  Harting- 
ton  dies  he  will  go  straight  to  Heaven" — pointing 
her  first  finger  high  above  her  head — "and  when 
Mr.  Asquith  dies  he  will  go  straight  there,  too;  not 
so  Lord  Salisbury,"  pointing  her  finger  with  a  div- 
ing movement  to  the  floor. 

You  met  every  one  at  her  house,  but  she  told  me 
that  before  1886-87  political  opponents  hardly  ever 
saw  one  another  and  society  was  much  duller. 

One  day  in  1901  my  husband  and  I  were  staying 
[210] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

at  Chatsworth.  There  was  a  huge  house-party,  in- 
cluding Arthur  Balfour  and  Chamberlain.  Before 
going  down  to  dinner,  Henry  came  into  my  bed- 
room and  told  me  he  had  had  a  telegram  to  say  that 
Queen  Victoria  was  very  ill  and  he  feared  the 
worst;  he  added  that  it  was  a  profound  secret  and 
that  I  was  to  tell  no  one.  After  dinner  I  was  asked 
by  the  Duchess'  granddaughters — Lady  Aldra  and 
Lady  Mary  Acheson — to  join  them  at  planchette, 
so,  to  please  them,  I  put  my  hand  upon  the  board, 
I  was  listening  to  what  the  Duchess  was  saying,  and 
my  mind  was  a  blank.  After  the  girls  and  I  had 
scratched  about  for  a  little  time,  one  of  them  took 
the  paper  off  the  board  and  read  out  loud: 

"The  Queen  is  dying."  She  added,  "What  Queen 
can  that  be?" 

We  gathered  round  her  and  all  looked  at  the 
writing;  and  there  I  read  distinctly  out  of  a  lot  of 
hieroglyphics : 

"The  Queen  is  dying." 

If  the  three  of  us  had  combined  to  try  to  write 
this  and  had  poked  about  all  night,  we  could  not 
have  done  it. 

I  have  had  many  interesting  personal  experiences 
of  untraceable  communication  and  telepathy  and  I 

[211] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

think  that  people  who  set  themselves  against  all  this 
side  of  life  are  excessively  stupid;  but  I  do  not 
connect  them  with  religion  any  more  than  with 
Marconi  and  I  shall  always  look  upon  it  as  a  mis- 
fortune that  people  can  be  found  sufficiently  ma- 
terial to  be  consoled  by  the  rubbish  they  listen  to  in 
the  dark  at  expensive  seances. 

At  one  time,  under  the  influence  of  Mr.  Percy 
Wyndham,  Frederic  Myers  and  Edmund  Gurney 
(the  last-named  a  dear  friend  with  whom  I  corre- 
sponded for  some  months  before  he  committed  sui- 
cide), Laura  and  I  went  through  a  period  of 
"spooks."  There  was  no  more  delightful  compan- 
ion than  Mr.  Percy  Wyndham;  he  adored  us  and, 
though  himself  a  firm  believer  in  the  spirit  world, 
he  did  not  resent  it  if  others  disagreed  with  him. 
We  attended  every  kind  of  seance  and  took  the 
matter  up  quite  seriously. 

Then,  as  now,  everything  was  conducted  in  the 
dark.  The  famous  medium  of  that  day  was  a  Rus- 
sian Jewess,  Madame  Blavatsky  by  name.  We 
were  asked  to  meet  her  at  tea,  in  the  dining-room  of 
a  private  house  in  Brook  Street,  a  non-professional 
affair,  merely  a  little  gathering  to  hear  her  views 
upon  God.  On  our  arrival  I  had  a  good  look  at  her 
[212] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

heavy,  white  face,  as  deeply  pitted  with  smallpox 
as  a  solitaire  board,  and  I  wondered  if  she  hailed 
from  Moscow  or  Margate.  She  was  tightly  sur- 
rounded by  strenuous  and  palpitating  ladies  and  all 
the  blinds  were  up.  Seeing  no  vacant  seat  near 
her,  I  sat  down  upon  a  low,  stuffed  chair  in  the  win- 
dow. After  making  a  substantial  tea,  she  was  seen 
to  give  a  sobbing  and  convulsive  shudder,  which 
caused  the  greatest  excitement;  the  company  closed 
up  round  her  in  a  circle  of  sympathy  and  concern. 
When  pressed  to  say  why  her  bust  had  heaved  and 
eyelids  flickered,  she  replied: 

"A  murderer  has  passed  below  our  windows." 
The  awe-struck  ladies  questioned  her  reverently 
but  ardently  as  to  how  she  knew  and  what  she  felt. 
Had  she  visualised  him?  Would  she  recognise  the 
guilty  one  if  she  saw  him  and,  after  recognising  him, 
feel  it  on  her  conscience  if  she  did  not  give  him  up 
to  the  law?  One  lady  proposed  that  we  should  all 
go  round  to  the  nearest  police-station  and  added 
that  a  case  of  this  kind,  if  proved,  would  do  more 
to  dispell  doubts  on  spirits  than  all  the  successful 
raps,  taps,  turns  and  tables.  Being  the  only  per- 
son in  the  window  at  the  time,  I  strained  my  eyes 

[213] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

up  and  down  Brook  Street  to  see  the  murderer,  but 
there  was  not  a  creature  in  sight. 

Madame  Blavatsky  turned  out  to  be  an  audacious 
swindler. 

To  return  to  Chatsworth:  our  host,  the  Duke  of 
Devonshire,  was  a  man  whose  like  we  shall  never 
see  again;  he  stood  by  himself  and  could  have  come 
from  no  country  in  the  world  but  England.  He 
had  the  figure  and  appearance  of  an  artisan,  with 
the  brevity  of  a  peasant,  the  courtesy  of  a  king  and 
the  noisy  sense  of  humour  of  a  FalstafF.  He  gave 
a  great,  wheezy  guffaw  at  all  the  right  things,  and 
was  possessed  of  endless  wisdom.  He  was  perfect- 
ly disengaged  from  himself,  fearlessly  truthful  and 
without  pettiness  of  any  kind. 

Bryan,  the  American  politician,  who  came  over 
here  and  heard  all  our  big  guns  speak — Rosebery, 
Chamberlain,  Asquith,  etc. — ^when  asked  what  he 
thought,  said  that  a  Chamberlain  was  not  unknown 
to  them  in  America^  and  that  they  could  produce 
a  Rosebery  or  an  Asquith,  but  that  a  Hartington 
no  man  could  find.  His  speaking  was  the  finest 
example  of  pile-driving  the  world  had  ever  seen. 

After  the  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales,  the 
Duke  and  his  wife  were  the  great  social,  semi-poli- 
[214] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

tical  figures  of  my  youth.  One  day  they  came  to 
pay  us  a  visit  in  Cavendish  Square,  having  heard 
that  our  top  storey  had  been  destroyed  by  fire. 
They  walked  round  the  scorched  walls  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, with  the  blue  sky  overhead,  and  stopped 
in  front  of  a  picture  of  a  race-horse,  given  to  me  on 
my  wedding  day  by  my  habit-maker,  Alexander 
Scott  (a  Scotchman  who  at  my  suggestion  had 
made  the  first  patent  safety  riding-skirt).  The 
Duke  said: 

"I  am  sorry  that  your  Zoff  any  and  Longhi  were 
burnt,  but  I  myself  would  far  rather  have  the  Her- 
ring.''* 

The  Duchess  laughed  at  this  and  asked  me  if  my 
baby  had  suffered  from  shock,  adding: 

"I  should  be  sorry  if  my  little  friend,  Elizabeth, 
has  had  a  fright," 

I  told  her  that  luckily  she  was  out  of  London  at 
the  time  of  the  fire.  When  the  Duchess  got  back 
to  Devonshire  House,  she  sent  Elizabeth  two  tall 
red  wax  candles,  with  a  note  in  which  she  said: 

"When  you  brought  your  little  girl  here,  she 
wanted  the  big  red  candles  in  my  boudoir  and  I 

*A  portrait  by  J.  F.  Herring,  sen.,  of  Rockingham,  winner  of  the 
St.  Leger  Stakes,  1833,  ridden  by  Sam  Darling. 

[215] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

gave  them  to  her;  they  must  have  melted  in  the  fire, 
so  I  send  her  these  new  ones." 

I  was  walking  alone  on  the  high  road  at  Chats- 
worth  one  afternoon  in  winter,  while  the  Duchess 
was  indoors  playing  cards,  when  I  saw  the  family 
barouche,  a  vast  vehicle  which  swung  and  swayed 
on  C-springs,  stuck  in  the  middle  of  a  ploughed 
field,  the  horses  plunging  about  in  unsuccessful  ef- 
forts to  drag  the  wheels  out  of  the  mud.  The  coach- 
man was  accompanied  by  a  page,  under  life  size. 
Observing  their  dilemma,  I  said: 

"Hullo,  you're  in  a  nice  fix!  What  induced  you 
to  go  into  that  field?" 

The  coachman,  who  knew  me  well,  explained 
that  they  had  met  a  hearse  in  the  narrow  part  of  the 
road  and,  as  her  Grace's  orders  were  that  no  car- 
riage was  to  pass  a  funeral  if  it  could  be  avoided,  he 
had  turned  into  the  field,  where  the  mud  was  so 
deep  and  heavy  that  they  were  stuck.  It  took  me 
some  time  to  get  assistance ;  but,  after  I  had  unfas- 
tened the  bearing-reins  and  mobilised  the  yokels, 
the  coachman,  carriage  and  I  returned  safely  to 
the  house. 

Death  was  the  only  thing  of  which  I  ever  saw  the 
[216} 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Duchess  afraid  and,  when  I  referred  to  the  carriage 
incident  and  chaffed  her  about  it,  she  said : 

"My  dear  child,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  would 
not  mind  dying?    What  do  you  feel  about  it?" 

I  answered  her,  in  all  sincerity,  that  I  would  mind 
more  than  anything  in  the  world,  but  not  because  I 
was  afraid,  and  that  hearses  did  not  affect  me  in  the 
least. 

She  asked  me  what  I  was  most  interested  in  after 
hunting  and  I  said  politics.  I  told  her  I  had  always 
prophesied  I  would  marry  a  Prime  Minister  and 
live  in  high  political  circles.  This  amused  her  and 
we  had  many  discussions  about  politics  and  people. 
She  was  interested  in  my  youth  and  upbringing  and 
made  me  tell  her  about  it. 

•  ••••;•• 

As  I  have  said  before,  we  were  not  popular  in 
Peeblesshire.  My  papa  and  his  vital  family  dis- 
turbed the  country  conventions;  and  all  Liberals 
were  looked  upon  as  aliens  by  the  Scottish  aristoc- 
racy of  those  days.  At  election  times  the  mill-hands 
of  both  sexes  were  locked  up  for  fear  of  rows,  but  in 
spite  of  this  the  locks  were  broken  and  the  rows 
were  perpetual.  When  my  father  turned  out  the 
sitting  Tory,  Sir  Graham  Montgomery,  in  1880, 

[217] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

there  were  high  jinks  in  Peebles.  I  pinned  the  Lib- 
eral colours,  with  the  deftness  of  a  pick-pocket,  to 
the  coat-tails  of  several  of  the  unsuspecting  Tory 
landlords,  who  had  come  from  great  distances  to 
vote.  This  delighted  the  electors,  most  of  whom 
were  feather-stitching  up  and  down  the  High 
Street,  more  familiar  with  drink  than  jokes. 

The  first  politicians  of  note  that  came  to  stay 
with  us  when  I  was  a  girl  were  Chamberlain  and 
Sir  Charles  Dilke.  Just  as,  later  on,  my  friends 
(the  Souls)  discussed  which  would  go  farthest, 
George  Curzon,  George  Wyndham  or  Harry  Cust, 
so  in  those  days  people  were  asking  the  same  ques- 
tion about  Chamberlain  and  Dilke.  To  my  mind 
it  wanted  no  witch  to  predict  that  Chamberlain 
would  beat  not  only  Dilke  but  other  men;  and 
Gladstone  made  a  profound  mistake  in  not  making 
him  a  Secretary  of  State  in  his  Government  of 
1885. 

Mr.  Chamberlain  never  deceived  himself,  which  is 
more  than  could  be  said  of  some  of  the  famous  poli- 
ticians of  that  day.  He  also  possessed  a  rare  meas- 
ure of  intellectual  control.  Self-mastery  was  his 
idiosyncrasy;  it  was  particularly  noticeable  in  his 
speaking;  he  encouraged  in  himself  such  scrupulous 
[218] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

economy  of  gesture,  movement  and  colour  that, 
after  hearing  him  many  times,  I  came  to  the  definite 
conclusion  that  Chamberlain's  opponents  were 
snowed  under  by  his  accumulated  moderation. 
Whatever  Dilke's  native  impulses  were,  no  one 
could  say  that  he  controlled  them.  Besides  a  defec- 
tive sense  of  humour,  he  was  fundamentally  com- 
monplace and  had  no  key  to  his  mind,  which  makes 
every  one  ultimately  dull.  My  father,  being  an 
ardent  Radical,  with  a  passion  for  any  one  that 
Gladstone  patronised,  had  made  elaborate  prepara- 
tions for  Dilke's  reception;  when  he  arrived  at  Glen 
he  was  given  a  warm  welcome;  and  we  all  sat  down 
to  tea.  After  hearing  him  talk  uninterruptedly  for 
hours  and  watching  his  stuffy  face  and  slow,  pro-, 
truding  eyes,  I  said  to  Laura: 

"He  may  be  a  very  clever  man,  but  he  has  not  a 
ray  of  humour  and  hardly  any  sensibility.  If  he 
were  a  horse,  I  would  certainly  not  buy  himl" 

With  which  she  entirely  agreed. 

On  the  second  night  of  his  visit,  our  distinguished 
guest  met  Laura  in  the  passage  on  her  way  to  bed; 
he  said  to  her: 

"If  you  will  kiss  me,  I  will  give  you  a  signed 
photograph  of  myself." 

[219] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

To  which  she  answered: 

"It  is  awfully  good  of  you,  Sir  Charles,  but  I 

would  rather  not,  for  what  on  earth  should  I  do 

with  the  photograph?" 

•  •••••• 

Mr.  Gladstone  was  the  dominating  politician  of 
the  day,  and  excited  more  adoration  and  hatred 
than  any  one. 

After  my  first  visit  to  Hawarden,  he  sent  me  the 
following  poem,  which  he  had  written  the  night  be- 
fore I  left: 

MARGOT 

When  Parliament  ceases  and  comes  the  recess, 
And  we  seek  in  the  country  rest  after  distress. 
As  a  rule  upon  visitors  place  an  embargo, 
But  make  an  exception  in  favour  of  Margot. 

For  she  brings  such  a  treasure  of  movement  and 

life, 
Fun,  spirit  and  stir,  to  folk  weary  with  strife. 
Though  young  and  though  fair,  who  can  hold  such  a 

cargo 
Of  all  the  good  qualities  going  as  Margot? 

Up  hill  and  down  dale,  'tis  a  capital  name 
To  blossom  in  friendship,  to  sparkle  in  fame; 
There's  but  one  objection  can  light  upon  Margot, 
Its  likeness  in  rhyming,  not  meaning,  to  argot. 

[220] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Never  mind,  never  mind,  we  will  give  it  the  slip, 
'Tis  not  argot,  the  language,  but  Argo,  the  ship; 
And  by  sea  or  by  land,  I  will  swear  you  may  far  go 
Before  you  can  hit  on  a  double  for  Margot. 

W,  E.  G. 
December  17th,  1889. 

I  received  this  at  Glen  by  the  second  post  on  the 
day  of  my  arrival,  too  soon  for  me  to  imagine  my 
host  had  written  it,  so  I  wrote  to  our  dear  old 
friend,  Godfrey  Webb — always  under  suspicion  of 
playing  jokes  upon  us — ^to  say  that  he  had  overdone 
it  this  time,  as  Gladstone  had  too  good  a  hand- writ- 
ing for  him  to  caricature  convincingly.  When  I 
found  that  I  was  wrong,  I  wrote  to  my  poet: 

Dec.  19th,  1889. 
Very  dear  and  honoured  Mr.  Gladstone, 

At  first  I  thought  your  poem  must  have  been  a 
joke,  written  by  some  one  who  knew  of  my  feelings 
for  you  and  my  visit  to  Hawarden ;  but,  when  I  saw 
the  signature  and  the  post-mark,  I  was  convinced  '^^ 

it  could  be  but  from  you.  It  has  had  the  intoxicat- 
ing effect  of  turning  my  head  with  pleasure;  if  I 
began  I  should  never  cease  thanking  you.  Getting 
four  rhymes  to  my  name  emphasizes  your  uncom- 
mon genius,  I  think!  And  Argo  the  ship  is  quite  a 
new  idea  and  a  charming  one.  I  love  the  third 
verse ;  that  Margot  is  a  capital  name  to  blossom  in 
friendship  and  sparkle  in  fame.    You  must  allow 

[221] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

me  to  say  that  you  are  ever  such  a  dear.  It  is  im- 
possible to  believe  that  you  will  be  eighty  to-mor- 
row, but  I  like  to  think  of  it,  for  it  gives  most  people 
an  opportunity  of  seeing  how  life  should  be  lived 
without  being  spent. 

There  is  no  blessing,  beauty  or  achievement  that 
I  do  not  wish  you. 

In  truth  and  sincerity. 
Yours, 

Margot  Tennant. 

A  propos  of  this,  twelve  years  later  I  received  the 
following  letter  from  Lord  Morley: 

The  Red  House, 

Hawarden, 
Chester, 

July  ISth,  1901. 
I  have  just  had  such  a  cheerful  quarter-of-an- 
hour — a  packet  of  your  letters  to  Mr.  G.  Think — I 
I've  read  them  all ! — and  they  bring  the  writer  back 
to  me  with  queer  and  tender  vividness.  Such  a 
change  from  Bishops!  !  I  Why  do  you  never  ad- 
dress me  as  "Very  dear  and  honoured  Sir"?  I'm 
not  quite  eighty-five  yet,  but  I  soon  shall  be. 

Ever  yours, 
John  Morley. 

I  have  heard  people  say  that  the  Gladstone  fam- 
ily never  allowed  him  to  read  a  newspaper  with  any- 
thing hostile  to  himself  in  it ;  all  this  is  the  greatest 
rubbish;  no  one  interfered  with  his  reading.  The 
[222] 


SKETCH  BT  MARGOT  OF  GLADSTONE  FELLING  A  TREE 

I  drew  this  pendl  sketch  of  Mr.  Gladstone  while  he  was  cut- 
ting down  a  tree  in  the  Cricket  Field  on  Wednesday,  5th  Novem- 
ber 1890.  A  reporter  standing  near  asked  me  for  it  to  put  in 
the  Evenimg  Dispatch  and  then  sent  me  the  proof  and  got  my 
pennission  to  publish  it. 


[223] 


MR  GLADSTONE  FELLING  A  TREE  AT 
THE  GLEN. 


r.^-v 


MAJIGOT'S  SKETCH  OF  GLADSTONE  AS  IT  WAS  ACTUALLY  REPRO- 
DUCED IN  "THE  EVENING  DISPATCH" 


[225] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

same  silly  things  were  said  about  the  great  men  of 
that  day  as  of  this  and  will  continue  to  be  said ;  and 
the  same  silly  geese  will  believe  them.  I  never  ob- 
served that  Gladstone  was  more  easily  flattered 
than  other  men.  He  was  more  flattered  and  by 
more  people,  because  he  was  a  bigger  man  and  lived 
a  longer  life ;  but  he  was  remarkably  free  from  van- 
ity of  any  kind.  He  would  always  laugh  at  a  good 
thing,  if  you  chose  the  right  moment  in  which  to 
tell  it  to  him;  but  there  were  moods  in  which  he  was 
not  inclined  to  be  amused. 

Once,  when  he  and  I  were  talking  of  Jane  Welsh 
Carlyle,  I  told  him  that  a  friend  of  Carlyle's,  an 
old  man  whom  I  met  at  Balliol,  had  told  me  that 
one  of  his  favourite  stories  was  of  an  Irishman  who, 
when  asked  where  he  was  driving  his  pig  to,  said: 

"Cark.  .  .  ."     (Cork.) 

"But,"  said  his  interlocutor,  "your  head  is  turned 
to  MuUingar.  ...  1" 

To  which  the  man  replied: 

"Whist!    He'll  hear  ye  I" 

This  delighted  Mr.  Gladstone.  I  also  told  him 
one  of  Jowett's  favourite  stories,  of  how  George 
IV.  went  down  to  Portsmouth  for  some  big  func- 
tion and  met  a  famous  admiral  of  the  day.     He 

[227] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

clapped  him  on  the  back  and  said  in  a  loud  voice: 

"Well,  my  dear  Admiral,  I  hear  you  are  the 
greatest  blackguard  in  Portsmouth !" 

At  which  the  Admiral  drew  himself  up,  saluted 
the  King  and  said : 

"I  hope,  Sir,  yow  have  not  come  down  to  take 
away  my  reputation." 

I  find  in  an  old  diary  an  account  of  a  drive  I  had 
with  Gladstone  after  my  sister  Laura  died.  This 
is  what  I  wrote: 

"On  Saturday,  29th  May,  1886,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Gladstone  came  to  pay  us  a  visit  at  40  Grosvenor 
Square.  Papa  had  been  arranging  the  drawing- 
room  preparatory  to  their  arrival  and  was  in  high 
spirits.  I  was  afraid  he  might  resent  my  wish  to 
take  Mr.  Gladstone  up  to  my  room  after  lunch  and 
talk  to  him  alone.  However,  Aunty  Pussy — as  we 
called  Mrs.  Gladstone — with  a  great  deal  of  wink- 
ing, led  papa  away  and  said  to  mamma: 

"  *WilIiam  and  Margot  are  going  to  have  a  little 
talkl' 

"I  had  not  met  or  seen  Mr.  Gladstone  since 
Laura's  death. 

"When  he  had  climbed  up  to  my  boudoir,  he 
[228] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

walked  to  the  window  and  admired  the  trees  in  the 
square,  deploring  their  uselessness  and  asking 
whether  the  street  lamp — which  crossed  the  square 
path  in  the  Kne  of  our  eyes — ^was  a  child. 

"I  asked  him  if  he  would  approve  of  the  square 
railings  being  taken  away  and  the  glass  and  trees 
made  into  a  'place  with  seats,  such  as  you  see  in 
foreign  towns,  not  merely  for  the  convenience  of 
sitting  down,  but  for  the  happiness  of  invalids  and 
idlers  who  court  the  shade  or  the  sun.  This  met 
with  his  approval,  but  he  said  with  some  truth 
that  the  only  people  who  could  do  this — or  prevent 
it — were  *the  resident  aristocracy.' 

*'He  asked  if  Laura  had  often  spoken  of  death. 
I  said  yes  and  that  she  had  written  about  it  in  a  way 
that  was  neither  morbid  nor  terrible.  I  showed  him 
some  prayers  she  had  scribbled  in  a  book,  against 
worldliness  and  high  spirits.  He  listened  with 
reverence  and  interest.  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw 
his  face  wear  the  expression  that  Millais  painted 
in  our  picture  as  distinctly  as  when,  closing  the 
book,  he  said  to  me: 

"  *It  requires  very  little  faith  to  believe  that  so 
rare  a  creature  as  your  sister  Laura  is  blessed  and 
with  God/ 

[229] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

"Aunty  Pussy  came  into  the  room  and  the  con* 
versation  turned  to  Laurence  Oliphant's  objection 
to  visiting  the  graves  of  those  we  love.  They  dis- 
agreed with  this  and  he  said : 

"  *I  think,  on  the  contrary,  one  should  encourage 
oneself  to  find  consolation  in  the  few  tangible 
memories  that  one  can  claim;  it  should  not  lessen 
faith  in  their  spirits;  and  there  is  surely  a  silent 
lesson  to  be  learnt  from  the  tombstone.' 

"Papa  and  mamma  came  in  and  we  all  went 
down  to  tea.  Mr.  G.,  feeling  relieved  by  the  change 
of  scene  and  topic,  began  to  talk  and  said  he  re- 
gretted all  his  life  having  missed  the  opportunity 
of  knowing  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Dr.  Arnold  and 
Lord  Melbourne.  He  told  us  a  favourite  story  of 
his.    He  said: 

"  *An  association  of  ladies  wrote  and  asked  me 
to  send  them  a  few  words  on  that  unfortunate  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots.  In  the  penury  of  my  knowledge 
and  the  confusion  arising  from  the  conflicting  esti- 
mates of  poor  Mary,  I  thought  I  would  write  to 
Bishop  Stubbs.  All  he  replied  was,  "Mary  is 
looking  up." ' 

"After  this  I  drove  him  back  to  Downing  Street 
in  my  phaeton,  round  the  Park  and  down  Knights- 
[230] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

bridge.  I  told  him  I  found  it  difficult  to  judge  of 
people's  brains  if  they  were  very  slow. 

*'Mr.  Gladstone:  "I  wish,  then,  that  you  had 
had  the  privilege  of  knowing  Mr.  Cobden;  he  was 
at  once  the  slowest  and  quite  one  of  the  cleverest 
men  I  ever  met.  Personally  I  find  it  far  easier  to 
judge  of  brains  than  character;  perhaps  it  is  be- 
cause in  my  line  of  life  motives  are  very  hard  to 
fathom,  and  constant  association  with  intelligence 
and  cultivation  leads  to  a  fair  toleration  and  criti- 
cism of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men.' 

"He  talked  of  Bright  and  Chamberlain  and 
Lord  Dalhousie,*  who,  he  said,  was  one  of  the  best 
and  most  conscientious  men  he  had  ever  known.  He 
told  me  that,  during  the  time  he  had  been  Prime 
Minister,  he  had  been  personally  asked  for  every 
great  office  in  the  State,  including  the  Archbishopric 
of  Canterbury,  and  this  not  by  maniacs  but  by 
highly  respectable  men,  sometimes  even  his  friends. 
He  said  that  Goschen's  critical  power  was  sound 
and  subtle,  but  that  he  spoilt  his  speeches  by  a  touch 
of  bitterness.  Mr.  Parnell,  he  said,  was  a  man  of 
genius,  born  to  great  things.  He  had  power, 
decision  and  reserve;  he  saw  things  as  they  were 

•Hie  late  Earl  of  Dalhousie. 

[281] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

and  had  confidence  in  himself.  (Ten  days  after 
this  drive,  Mr.  Gladstone  made  his  last  great  speech 
on  Irish  Home  Rule.) 

"I  made  him  smile  by  telling  him  how  Lord 
Kimberley  told  me  that,  one  day  in  Dublin,  when 
he  was  Viceroy,  he  had  received  a  letter  which 
began: 

"  *My  Lord,  To-morrow  we  intend  to  kill  you 
at  the  corner  of  Kildare  Street ;  but  we  would  like 
you  to  know  there  is  nothing  personal  in  it!' 

"He  talked  all  the  way  down  Piccadilly  about 
the  Irish  character,  its  wit,  charm,  grace  and  intelli- 
gence. I  nearly  landed  my  phaeton  into  an  omni- 
bus in  my  anxiety  to  point  out  the  ingratitude  and 
want  of  purpose  of  the  Irish;  but  he  said  that  in 
the  noblest  of  races  the  spirit  of  self-defence  had 
bred  mean  vices  and  that  generation  after  genera- 
tion were  born  in  Ireland  with  their  blood  dis- 
coloured by  hatred  of  the  English  Governments. 

"  'Tories  have  no  hope,  no  faith,'  he  continued, 
*and  the  best  of  them  have  class-interest  and  the 
spirit  of  antiquity,  but  the  last  has  been  forgotten, 
and  only  class-interest  remains.  Disraeli  was  a 
great  Tory.  It  grieves  me  to  see  people  believing 
in  Randolph  Churchill  as  his  successor,  for  he  has 
[232] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

none  of  the  genius,  patience  or  insight  which  Dizzy 
had  in  no  small  degree.' 

"Mr.  Gladstone  told  me  that  he  was  giving  a 
dinner  to  the  Liberal  party  that  night,  and  he 
added : 

"  *If  Hartington  is  in  a  good  humour,  I  intend 
to  say  to  him,  "Don't  move  a  vote  of  want  of  confi- 
dence in  me  after  dinner,  or  you  will  very  likely 
carry  it."  ' 

"  *He  laughed  at  this,  and  told  me  some  days 
after  that  Lord  Hartington  had  been  delighted 
with  the  idea. 

"He  strongly  advised  me  to  read  a  little  book 
by  one  Miss  Toilet,  called  Country  Conversations, 
which  had  been  privately  printed,  and  deplored  the 
vast  amount  of  poor  literature  that  was  circulated, 
'when  an  admirable  httle  volrmie  like  this  cannot 
be  got  by  the  mos^b  ardent  admirers  now  the 
authoress  is  dead.'  "  (In  parenthesis,  I  often  wish 
I  had  been  able  to  tell  Mr.  Gladstone  that  Jowett 
left  me  this  little  book  and  his  Shakespeare  in  his 
will.) 

"We  drove  through  the  Green  Park  and  I  pulled 
up  on  the  Horse  Guards  Parade  at  the  garden-gate 
of  10  Downing  Street.    He  got  out  of  the  phaeton, 

[233] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

unlocked  the  gate  and,  turning  round,  stood  with 
his  hat  off  and  his  grey  hair  blowing  about  his  fore- 
head, holding  a  dark,  homespun  cape  close  round 
his  shoulders.  He  said  with  great  grace  that  he  had 
enjoyed  his  drive  immensely,  that  he  hoped  it  would 
occur  again  and  that  I  had  a  way  of  saying  things 
and  a  tone  of  voice  that  would  always  remind  him 
of  my  sister  Laura.  His  dear  old  face  looked 
furrowed  with  care  and  the  outline  of  it  was  sharp 
as  a  profile.  I  said  good-bye  to  him  and  drove 
away;  perhaps  it  was  the  light  of  the  setting  sun, 
or  the  wind,  or  perhaps  something  else,  but  my  eyes 
were  full  of  tears.'* 

My  husband,  in  discussing  with  me  Gladstone's 
sense  of  humour,  told  me  the  following  story: 

"During  the  Committee  Stage  of  the  Home 
Rule  Bill  in  the  session  of  1893, 1  was  one  evening 
in  a  very  thin  House,  seated  by  the  side  of  Mr. 
Gladstone  on  the  Treasury  Bench,  of  which  we 
were  the  sole  occupants.  His  eyes  were  half -closed, 
and  he  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  following  the 
course  of  a  dreary  discussion  on  the  supremacy  of 
Parliament.  Suddenly  he  turned  to  me  with  an 
air  of  great  animation  and  said,  in  his  most  solemn 
[234] 


MR.  AND  MRS.  ASaUITH, 
AS  THEY  APPEARED  IK   1895, 
ONE  YEAR  AFTER  MAROOT's 
'  MARRIAGE  TO  THE   GREAT 

LIBERAL  STATESMAN 


J^i^  ^  /f^'z/^  iX.    ^^^l^^i-^'^^i^^-i^t^^ 


JOSEPH  CHAMBERLAIN,  WHO  BROKE  WITH  GLADSTONE 
OyEB  IRISH  HOME  RULE 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

tones,  *Have  you  ever  considered  who  is  the  ugliest 
man  in  the  party  opposite? 

"Mr.  Asquith:  'Certainly;  it  is  without  doubt 
X'   (naming  a  famous  Anglo-Indian  statesman). 

"Mr.  Gladstone:  'You  are  wrong.  X  is  no 
doubt  an  ugly  fellow,  but  a  much  uglier  is  Y' 
(naming  a  Queen's  Counsel  of  those  days). 

"Mr.  Asquith:  'Why  should  you  give  him  the 
preference?' 

"Mr.  Gladstone:  Apply  a  very  simple  test. 
Imagine  them  both  magnified  on  a  colossal  scale. 
X's  ugliness  would  then  begin  to  look  dignified  and 
even  impressive,  while  the  more  you  enlarged  Y 
the  meaner  he  would  become.'  " 

•  ••«•• 

I  have  known  seven  Prime  Ministers — Glad- 
stone, Salisbury,  Rosebery,  Campbell-Bannerman, 
Arthur  Balfour,  Asquith  and  Lloyd  George — 
every  one  of  them  as  different  from  the  others  as 
possible.  I  asked  Arthur  Balfour  once  if  there  was 
much  difference  between  him  and  his  uncle.    I  said: 

"Lord  Salisbury  does  not  care  fanatically  about 
culture  or  literature.  He  may  like  Jane  Austen, 
Scott  or  Sainte-Beuve,  for  all  I  know,  but  he  is  not 
a  scholar  J  he  does  not  care  for  Plato,  Homer,  Virgil 

[235] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

or  any  of  the  great  classics.  He  has  a  wonderful 
sense  of  humour  and  is  a  beautiful  writer,  of  fine 
style;  but  I  should  say  he  is  above  everything  a  man 
of  science  and  a  Churchman.  All  this  can  be  said 
equally  well  of  you." 

To  which  he  replied: 

"There  is  a  difference.  My  imcle  is  a  Tory  .  .  . 
and  I  am  a  Liberal." 

I  delighted  in  the  late  Lord  Salisbury,  both  in 
his  speaking  and  in  his  conversation.  I  had  a  kind 
of  feeling  that  he  could  always  score  off  me  with 
such  grace,  good  humour  and  wit  that  I  would 
never  discover  it.  He  asked  me  once  what  my  hus- 
band thought  of  his  son  Hugh's  speaking,  to  which 
I  answered: 

"I  will  not  tell  you,  because  you  don't  know  any- 
thing about  my  husband  and  would  not  value  his 
opinion.  You  know  nothing  about  our  House  of 
Commons  either,  Lord  Salisbury;  only  the  other 
day  you  said  in  public  that  you  had  never  even 
seen  Parnell." 

Lord  Salisbury   {pointing  to  Ms  waistcoat) : 

"My  figure  is  not  adapted  for  the  narrow  seats  in 

your  peers'  gallery,  but  I  can  assure  you  you  are 

doing  me  an  injustice.    I  was  one  of  the  first  to 

[236] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

predict,  both  in  private  and  in  public,  that  Mr.  As- 
quith  would  have  a  very  great  future.  I  see  no  one 
of  his  generation,  or  even  among  the  younger  men, 
at  all  comparable  to  him.  Will  you  not  gratify  my 
curiosity  by  telling  me  what  he  thinks  of  my  son 
Hugh's  speaking?" 

I  was  luckily  able  to  say  that  my  husband  con- 
sidered Lord  Hugh  Cecil  the  best  speaker  in  the 
House  of  Commons  and  indeed  anywhere,  at  which 
Lord  Salisbury  remarked : 

"Do  you  think  he  would  say  so  if  he  heard  him 
speak  on  subjects  other  than  the  Church?" 

I  assured  him  that  he  had  heard  him  on  Free 
Trade  and  many  subjects  and  that  his  opinion 
remained  unchanged.  He  thought  that,  if  they 
could  unknot  themselves  and  cover  more  ground, 
both  he  and  his  brother.  Bob  Cecil,  had  great 
futures. 

I  asked  Lord  Salisbury  if  he  had  ever  heard 
Chamberlain  speak  (Chamberlain  was  Secretary  of 
State  for  the  Colonies  at  the  time) . 

LoED  Salisbury:  "It  is  curious  you  should  ask 
me  this.    I  heard  him  for  the  first  time  this  after- 


noon." 


[237] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Margot:  "Where  did  you  hear  him?  And  what 
was  he  speaking  about?" 

Lord  Salisbury:  "I  heard  him  at  Grosvenor 
House.  Let  me  see  .  .  .  what  was  he  speaking 
about?  .  .  .{reflectively)  Australian  washer- 
women? I  think  ...  or  some  such  thing.  .  .  ." 

Margot:  "What  did  you  think  of  it?" 

Lord  Salisbury:  "He  seems  a  good,  business- 
like speaker." 

Margot:  "I  suppose  at  this  moment  Mr.  Cham- 
berlain is  as  much  hated  as  Gladstone  ever  was?" 

Lord  Salisbury:  "There  is  a  difference.  Mr. 
Gladstone  was  hated,  but  he  was  very  much  loved. 
Does  any  one  love  Mr.  Chamberlain?" 

One  day  after  this  conversation  he  came  to  see 
me,  bringing  with  him  a  signed  photograph  of  him- 
self. We  of  the  Liberal  Party  were  much  exer- 
cised over  the  shadow  of  Protection  which  had  been 
presented  to  us  by  Mr.  Ritchie,  the  then  Chancel- 
lor of  the  Exchequer,  putting  a  tax  upon  corn; 
and  the  Conservative  Party,  with  Mr.  Balfour  as 
its  Prime  Minister,  was  not  doing  well.  We 
opened  the  conversation  upon  his  nephew  and  the 
fiscal  question. 
[238] 


ON    HIS    NERVES. 


THE  MAN  AND  HIS  SHADOW 

Political  caricature  of  Mr.  Asquith  dogging  the  footsteps  of  Mr. 
Chamberlain. 


[239] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  was  shocked  by  his  apparent  detachment  and 
said: 

"But  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  don't  think 
there  is  any  danger  of  England  becoming  Pro- 
tectionist?" 

Lord  Salisbury  (with  a  sweet  smile) :  "Not  the 
slightest!  There  will  always  be  a  certain  number 
of  foolish  people  who  will  be  Protectionists,  but 
they  will  easily  be  overpowered  by  the  wise  ones. 
Have  you  ever  known  a  man  of  first-rate  intellect 
in  this  country  who  was  a  Protectionist?  " 

Margot:  "I  never  thought  of  it,  but  Lord  Milner 
is  the  only  one  I  can  think  of  for  the  moment." 

He  entirely  agreed  with  me  and  said: 

"No,  you  need  not  be  anxious.  Free  Trade  will 
always  win  against  Protection  in  this  country. 
This  will  not  be  the  trouble  of  the  future." 

Margot:  "Then  what  will  be?" 

Lord  Salisbury:  "The  House  of  Lords  is  the 
difficulty  that  I  foresee." 

I  was  surprised  and  incredulous  and  said  quietly: 

"Dear  Lord  Salisbury,  I  have  heard  of  the 
House  of  Lords  all  my  life !  But,  stupid  as  it  has 
been,  no  one  will  ever  have  the  power  to  alter  it. 
Why  do  you  prophesy  that  it  will  cause  trouble?" 

[241] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Lord  Salisbury:  "You  may  think  me  vain, 
Mrs.  Asquith,  but,  as  long  as  I  am  there,  nothing 
will  happen.  I  understand  my  lords  thoroughly; 
but,  when  I  go,  mistakes  will  be  made :  the  House 
of  Lords  will  come  into  conflict  with  the  Commons." 

Margot:  "You  should  have  taught  it  better 
ways!    I  am  afraid  it  must  be  your  fault!  " 

Lord  Salisbury  (smiling) :  "Perhaps;  but  what 
do  you  think  will  be  the  next  subject  of  con- 
troversy?" 

Margot:  "If  what  you  say  is  true  and  Protec- 
tion is  impossible  in  this  country,  I  think  the  next 
row  will  be  over  the  Church  of  England;  it  is  in  a 
bad  way." 

I  proceeded  to  denounce  the  constant  building 
of  churches  while  the  parsons'  pay  was  so  cruelly 
small.  I  said  that  few  good  men  could  afford  to  go 
into  the  Church  at  all ;  and  the  assumed  voices,  both 
in  the  reading  and  in  the  preaching,  got  on  the 
nerves  of  every  one  who  cared  to  listen  to  such  a 
degree  that  the  churches  were  becoming  daily  duller 
and  emptier. 

He  listened  with  patience  to  all  this  and  then 
got  up  and  said : 

*'Now  I  must  go;  I  shall  not  see  you  again." 
[242] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Something  in  his  voice  made  me  look  at  him. 

"You  aren't  ill,  are  you?"  I  asked  with  appre- 
hension. 

To  which  he  replied: 

"I  am  going  into  the  country." 

I  never  saw  him  again  and,  when  I  heard  of  his 
death,  I  regretted  I  had  not  seen  him  oftener. 


[248] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  BEAUTIFUL  KATE  VAUGHAN — COACHED  BY 
COQUELIN  IN  MOLIERE ROSEBEEY's  POPULAR- 
ITY  AND   ELOQUENCE CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN 

hon-vivant  and  hovlevardier — balfour's  mot  ; 

HIS  CHARM  AND  WIT ;  HIS  TASTES  AND  PREFER- 
ENCES; HIS  RELIGIOUS  SPECULATION 

THE  next  Prime  Minister,  whom  I  knew  better 
than  either  Mr.  Gladstone  or  Lord  Salisbury, 
was  Lord  Rosebery. 

When  I  was  a  little  girl,  my  mother  took  us  to 
stay  at  Thomas's  Hotel,  Berkeley  Square,  to  have 
a  course  of  dancing  lessons  from  the  fashionable 
and  famous  M.  d'Egville.  These  lessons  put  me 
in  high  spirits,  because  my  master  told  me  I  could 
always  make  a  living  on  the  stage.  His  remarks 
were  justified  by  a  higher  authority  ten  years  later: 
the  beautiful  Kate  Vaughan  of  the  Gaiety  Theatre. 

I  made  her  acquaintance  in  this  way:  I  was  a 

good  amateur  actress  and  with  the  help  of  Miss 

Annie  Schletter,  a  friend  of  mine  who  is  on  the 

English    stage    now,    I    thought    we    might    act 

[244] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Moliere's  Precieuses  ridicules  together  for  a  charity 
matinee.  Coquelin — ^the  finest  actor  of  Moliere 
that  ever  lived — was  performing  in  London  at  the 
time  and  promised  he  would  not  only  coach  me 
in  my  part  but  lend  his  whole  company  for  our 
performance.  He  gave  me  twelve  lessons  and  I 
worked  hard  for  him.  He  was  intensely  particular; 
and  I  was  more  nervous  over  these  lessons  than  I 
ever  felt  riding  over  high  timber.  My  father  was 
so  delighted  at  what  Coquelin  said  to  him  about  me 
and  my  acting  that  he  bought  a  fine  early  copy  of 
Moliere's  plays  which  he  made  me  give  him.  I  en- 
close his  letter  of  refusal: 

My  dearest  little  Margot, 

Je  suis  tres  mecontent  de  vous.  Je  croyais  que 
vous  me  traitiez  tout  a  fait  en  ami,  car  c'etait  en 
ami  que  j'avais  accepte  de  vous  offrir  quelques  in- 
dications sur  les  Precieuses  .  .  .  et  voila  que  vous 
m'envoyez  un  enorme  cadeau  .  .  .  imprudence 
d'abord  parce  que  j'ai  tous  les  beaux  Moliere  qui 
existent  et  ensuite  parce  qu'il  ne  fallait  pas  envoyer 
ombre  de  quoi  que  ce  soit  a  votre  ami  Coq. 

Je  vais  tout  faire,  malgre  cela,  pour  aller  vous 
voir  un  instant  au'jourd'hui,  mais  je  ne  suis  pas 
certain  d'y  parvenir. 

Remerciez  votre  amie  Madelon  et  dites-lui  bien 
qu'elle  non  plus  ne  me  doit  absolument  rien. 

J'aime  mieux  un  tout  petit  peu  de  la  plus  legere 

[245] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

gratitude  que  n'importe  quoi.  Conservez,  ma  chere 
Margot,  un  bon  souvenir  de  ce  petit  travail  qui  a 
du  vous  amuser  beaucoup  et  qui  nous  a  reunis  dans 
les  meilleurs  sentiments  du  monde ;  continuons  nous 
cette  sympathie  que  je  trouve  moi  tout  a  fait  ex- 
quise — et  croyez  qu'en  la  continuant  de  votre  cote, 
vous  serez  mille  fois  plus  que  quitte  envers  votre 
ires  devoue 

COQ. 

Coquelin  the  younger  was  our  stage-manager, 
and  acted  the  principal  part.  When  it  was  over 
and  the  curtain  went  down,  "Freddy  Wellesley's* 
band"  was  playing  Strauss  valses  in  the  entr'ac^, 
while  the  audience  was  waiting  for  Kate  Vaughan 
to  appear  in  a  short  piece  called  The  Dancing  Le^ 
son,  the  most  beautiful  solo  dance  ever  seen.  I  was 
alone  on  the  stage  and,  thinking  that  no  one  could 
see  me,  I  slipped  off  my  Moliere  hoop  of  flowered 
silk  and  let  myself  go,  in  lace  petticoats,  to  the 
wonderful  music.  Suddenly  I  heard  a  rather 
Cockney  voice  say  from  the  wings : 

"My  Lord  I  How  you  can  dance  I  Who  taught 
you,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

I  turned  round  and  saw  the  lovely  face  of  Kate 
Vaughan.    She  wore  a  long,  black,  clinging  crepe- 

•  The  Hon.  F.  Wellesley,  a  famous  beau  and  the  husband  of  Kate 
Vaughan. 

[246] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

de-chine  dress  and  a  little  black  bonnet  with  a 
velvet  bow  over  one  ear;  her  white  throat  and 
beautiful  arms  were  bare. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "you  could  understudy  me,  I 
believe!  You  come  round  and  I'll  show  you  my 
parts  and  you  will  never  lack  for  goldie  boys!" 

I  remember  the  expression,  because  I  had  no  idea 
what  she  meant  by  it.  She  explained  that,  if  I  be- 
came her  under-study  at  the  Gaiety,  I  would  make 
my  fortune.  I  was  surprised  that  she  had  taken  me 
for  a  professional,  but  not  more  so  than  she  was 
when  I  told  her  that  I  had  never  had  a  lesson  in 
ballet-dancing  in  my  life. 

My  lovely  coach,  however,  fell  sick  and  had  to 
give  up  the  stage.  She  wrote  me  a  charming  letter, 
recommending  me  to  her  own  dancing-master,  M. 
d'Auban,  under  whom  I  studied  for  several  years. 

One  day,  on  returning  from  my  early  dancing- 
lesson  to  Thomas's  Hotel,  I  found  my  father  talk- 
ing to  Lord  Rosebery.  He  said  I  had  better  run 
away;  so,  after  kissing  him  and  shaking  hands  with 
the  stranger  I  left  the  room.  As  I  shut  the  door,  I 
heard  Lord  Rosebery  say : 

"Your  girl  has  beautiful  eyes." 

I  repeated  this  upstairs,  with  joy  and  excitement, 

[247] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

to  the  family,  who,  being  in  a  good  humour,  said 
they  thought  it  was  true  enough  if  my  eyes  had  not 
been  so  close  together.  I  took  up  a  glass,  had  a 
good  look  at  myself  and  was  reluctantly  compelled 
to  agree. 

I  asked  my  father  about  Lord  Rosebery  after- 
wards, and  he  said: 

"He  is  far  the  most  brilliant  young  man  Uving 
and  will  certainly  be  Prime  Minister  one  day." 

Lord  Rosebery  was  born  with  almost  every  ad- 
vantage: he  had  a  beautiful  smile,  an  interesting 
face,  a  remarkable  voice  and  natural  authority. 
When  at  Oxford,  he  had  been  too  much  interested 
in  racing  to  work  and  was  consequently  sent  down 
— a  punishment  shared  at  a  later  date  and  on 
different  grounds  by  another  distinguished  states- 
man, the  present  Viscount  Grey — but  no  one  could 
say  he  was  not  industrious  at  the  time  that  I  knew 
him  and  a  man  of  education.  He  made  his  fame 
first  by  being  Mr.  Gladstone's  chairman  at  the 
political  meetings  in  the  great  Midlothian  cam- 
paign, where  he  became  the  idol  of  Scotland, 
Whenever  there  was  a  crowd  in  the  streets  or  at 
the  station,  in  either  Glasgow  or  Edinburgh,  and 
[248] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  enquired  what  it  was  all  about,  I  always  received 
the  same  reply: 

"Rozbury!" 

I  think  Lord  Rosebery  would  have  had  a  better 
nervous  system  and  been  a  happier  man  if  he  had 
not  been  so  rich.  Riches  are  over-estimated  in  the 
Old  Testament:  the  good  and  successful  man  re- 
ceives too  many  animals,  wives,  apes,  she-goats  and 
peacocks.  The  values  are  changed  in  the  New: 
Christ  counsels  a  different  perfection  and  promises 
another  reward.  He  does  not  censure  the  man  of 
great  possessions,  but  He  points  out  that  his  riches 
will  hamper  him  in  his  progress  to  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven  and  that  he  would  do  better  to  sell  all;  and 
He  concludes  with  the  penetrating  words: 

"Of  what  profit  is  it  to  a  man  if  he  gain  the 
whole  world  and  lose  his  own  soul?" 

The  soul  here  is  freedom  from  self. 

Lord  Rosebery  was  too  thin-skinned,  too  con- 
scious to  be  really  happy.  He  was  not  self -swayed 
like  Gladstone,  but  he  was  self -enfolded.  He  came 
into  power  at  a  time  when  the  fortunes  of  the 
Liberal  party  were  at  their  lowest ;  and  this,  coupled 
with  his  peculiar  sensibility,  put  a  severe  strain 
upon  him.    Some  people  thought  that  he  was  a  man 

[249] 


I 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

of  genius,  morbidly  sensitive  shrinking  from  pub- 
lie  life  and  the  Press,  cursed  with  insufficient 
ambition,  sudden,  baffling,  complex  and  charming. 
Others  thought  that  he  was  a  man  irresistible  to  his 
friends  and  terrible  to  his  enemies,  dreaming  of 
Empire,  besought  by  kings  and  armies  to  put  coun- 
tries and  continents  straight,  a  man  whose  notice 
blasted  or  blessed  young  men  of  letters,  poets, 
peers  or  politicians,  who  at  once  scared  and  com- 
pelled every  one  he  met  by  his  freezing  silence,  his 
playful  smile,  or  the  weight  of  his  moral  indigna- 
tion: the  truth  being  that  he  was  a  mixture  of  both. 

Lord  Salisbury  told  me  he  was  the  best  occasional 
speaker  he  had  ever  heard ;  and  certainly  he  was  an 
exceptionally  gifted  person.  He  came  to  Glen  con- 
stantly in  my  youth  and  all  of  us  worshipped  him. 
No  one  was  more  alarming  to  the  average  stranger 
or  more  playful  and  affectionate  in  intimacy  than 
Lord  Rosebery. 

An  announcement  in  some  obscure  paper  that  he 
was  engaged  to  be  married  to  me  came  between  us 
in  later  years.  He  was  seriously  annoyed  and 
thought  I  ought  to  have  contradicted  this.  I  had 
never  even  heard  the  report  till  I  got  a  letter  in 
Cairo  from  Paris,  asking  if  I  would  not  agTee  to 
[250] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

the  high  consideration  and  respectful  homages  of 
the  writer  and  allow  her  to  make  my  chemises. 
After  this,  the  matter  went  completely  out  of  my 
head,  till,  meeting  him  one  day  in  London,  I  was 
greeted  with  such  frigid  self-suppression  that  I 
felt  quite  exhausted.  A  few  months  later,  our 
thoughtful  Press  said  I  was  engaged  to  be  married 
to  Arthur  Balfour.  As  I  had  seen  nothing  of  Lord 
Rosebery  since  he  had  gone  into  a  period  of  long 
mourning,  I  was  acclimatised  to  doing  without  him, 
but  to  lose  Arthur's  affection  and  friendship  would 
have  been  an  irreparable  personal  loss  to  me.  I 
need  not  have  been  afraid,  for  this  was  just  the 
kind  of  rumour  that  challenged  his  insolent  indiffer- 
ence to  the  public  and  the  Press.  Seeing  me  come 
into  Lady  Rothschild's  ball-room  one  night,  he  left 
the  side  of  the  man  he  was  conversing  with  and 
with  his  elastic  step  stalked  down  the  empty  par- 
quet  floor  to  greet  me.  He  asked  me  to  sit  down 
next  to  him  in  a  conspicuous  place ;  and  we  talked 
through  two  dances.  I  was  told  afterwards  that 
some  one  who  had  been  watching  us  said  to  him: 

"I  hear  you  are  going  to  marry  Margot  Ten- 
nant." 

To  which  he  replied: 

[2511 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

"No,  that  is  not  so.  I  rather  think  of  having  a 
career  of  my  own," 

•  •••••• 

Lord  Rosebery's  two  antagonists,  Sir  William 
Harcom-t  and  Sir  Henry  Campbell-Bannerman, 
were  very  different  men. 

Sir  William  ought  to  have  lived  in  the  eighteenth 
century.  To  illustrate  his  sense  of  humour:  he  told 
me  that  women  should  be  played  with  like  fish; 
only  in  the  one  case  you  angle  to  make  them  rise 
and  in  the  other  to  make  them  fall.  He  had  a 
great  deal  of  wit  and  nature,  impulsive  generosity 
of  heart  and  a  temperament  that  clouded  his  judg- 
ment. He  was  a  man  to  whom  life  had  added 
nothing;  he  was  perverse,  unreasonable,  brilliant, 
boisterous  and  kind  when  I  knew  him ;  but  he  must 
have  been  all  these  in  the  nursery. 

At  the  time  of  the  split  in  our  party  over  the 
Boer  War,  when  we  were  in  opposition  and  the 
phrase  "methods  of  barbarism"  became  famous,  my 
personal  friends  were  in  a  state  of  the  greatest 
agitation.  Lord  Spencer,  who  rode  with  me  nearly 
every  morning,  deplored  the  attitude  which  my 
husband  had  taken  up.  He  said  it  would  be  fatal 
to  his  future,  dissociating  himself  from  the  Pacifists 
[252] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

and  the  Pro-Boers,  and  that  he  feared  the  Har- 
courts  would  never  speak  to  us  again.  As  I  was 
devoted  to  the  latter,  and  to  their  son  Lulu*  and 
his  wife  May — still  my  dear  and  faithful  friends 
— I  felt  full  of  apprehension.  We  dined  with  Sir 
Henry  and  Lady  Lucy  one  night  and  found  Sir 
William  and  Lady  Harcourt  were  of  the  company. 
I  had  no  opportunity  of  approaching  either  of  them 
before  dinner,  but  when  the  men  came  out  of  the 
dining-room,  Sir  William  made  a  bee-line  for  me. 
Sitting  down,  he  took  my  hand  in  both  of  his  and 
said: 

"My  dear  little  friend,  you  need  not  mind  any  of 
the  quarrels!  The  Asquith  evenings  or  the  Rose- 
bery  afternoons,  all  these  things  will  pass ;  but  your 
man  is  the  man  of  the  future!" 

These  were  generous  words,  for,  if  Lord  Mprley, 
my  husband  and  others  had  backed  Sir  William 
Harcourt  instead  of  Lord  Rosebery  when  Glad- 
stone resigned,  he  would  certainly  have  become 
Prime  Minister. 

•  •••••• 

I  never  knew  Sir  Henry  Campbell-Bannerman 
well,  but  whenever  we  did  meet  we  had  great  laughs 

•The  present  Viscount  Harcourt. 

[253] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

together.  He  was  essentially  a  bon  vivant,  a  boule- 
vardier  and  a  humorist.  At  an  official  luncheon 
given  in  honour  of  some  foreign  Minister, 
Campbell-Bannerman,  in  an  admirable  speech  in 
French — a  language  with  which  he  was  familiar — 
described  Arthur  Balfour,  who  was  on  one  side 
of  him,  as  Venfant  gidte  of  English  politics  and 
Chamberlain,  who  was  also  at  the  lunch,  as  Venfant 
terrible. 

On  the  opening  day  of  Parliament,  February  the 
14th,  1905,  he  made  an  amusing  and  teUing  speech. 
It  was  a  propos  of  the  fiscal  controversy  which  was 
raging  all  over  England  and  which  was  destined 
to  bring  the  Liberal  party  into  power  at  the  suc- 
ceeding two  general  elections.  He  said  that  Arthur 
Balfour  was  *'like  a  general  who,  having  given 
the  command  to  his  men  to  attack,  found  them 
attacking  one  another;  when  informed  of  this,  he 
shrugs  his  shoulders  and  says  that  he  can't  help 
it  if  they  will  misunderstand  his  orders!'* 

In  spite  of  the  serious  split  in  the  Liberal  Party 
over  the  Boer  War,  involving  the  disaffection  of  my 
husband.  Grey  and  Haldane,  Campbell-Banner- 
man became  Prime  Minister  in  1905. 

He  did  not  have  a  coupon  election  by  arrange- 
[254] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

ment  with  the  Conservative  Party  to  smother  his 
opponents,  but  asked  Henry,  before  he  consulted 
any  one,  what  office  he  would  take  for  himself  and 
what  he  thought  suitable  for  other  people  in  his 
new  Cabinet.  Only  men  of  a  certain  grandeur  of 
character  can  do  these  things,  but  every  one  who 
watched  the  succeeding  events  would  agree  that 
Campbell-Bannerman's  generosity  was  rewarded. 

When  C.B. — as  he  was  called — went  to  Downing 
Street,  he  was  a  tired  man;  his  wife  was  a  complete 
invalid  and  his  own  health  had  been  undermined 
by  nursing  her.  As  time  went  on,  the  late  hours 
in  the  House  of  Commons  began  to  tell  upon 
him  and  he  relegated  more  and  more  of  his  work  to 
my  husband. 

One  evening  he  sent  for  Henry  to  go  and  see  him 
at  10  Downing  Street  and,  telling  him  that  he  was 
dying,  thanked  him  for  all  he  had  done,  particularly 
for  his  great  work  on  the  South  African  constitu- 
tion.   He  turned  to  him  and  said: 

"Asquith,  you  are  different  from  the  others,  and 
I  am  glad  to  have  known  you  .  .  .  God  bless 
you!" 

C.B.  died  a  few  hours  after  this. 

•  •••••• 

[255] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  now  come  to  another  Prime  Minister,  Arthur 
Balfour. 

When  Lord  Morley  was  writing  the  life  of  Glad- 
stone, Arthur  Balfour  said  to  me: 

"If  you  see  John  Morley,  give  him  my  love  and 
tell  him  to  be  bold  and  indiscreet." 

A  biography  must  not  be  a  brief  either  for  or 
against  its  client  and  it  should  be  the  same  with 
an  autobiography.  In  writing  about  yourself  and 
other  living  people  you  must  take  your  courage  in 
both  hands.  I  had  thought  of  putting  as  a  motto 
on  the  title-page  of  this  book,  "As  well  be  hanged 
for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb" ;  but  I  gave  it  up  when  my 
friends  gave  me  away  and  I  saw  it  quoted  in  the 
newspapers ;  and  I  chose  Blake  and  the  Bible. 

If  I  have  written  any  words  here  that  wound 
a  friend  or  an  enemy,  I  can  only  refer  them  to  my 
general  character  and  ask  to  be  judged  by  it.  I 
am  not  tempted  to  be  spiteful  and  have  never  con- 
sciously hurt  any  one  in  my  life;  but  in  this  book 
I  must  write  what  I  think  without  fear  or  favour 
and  with  a  strict  regard  to  unmodelled  truth. 

Arthur  Balfour  was  never  a  standard-bearer. 
He  was  a  self-indulgent  man  of  simple  tastes.  For 
the  average  person  he  was  as  puzzling  to  under- 
[256] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

stand  and  as  difficult  to  know  as  he  was  easy  for 
me  and  many  others  to  love.  You  may  say  that 
no  average  man  can  know  a  Prime  Minister  inti- 
mately; but  most  of  us  have  met  strangers  whose 
minds  we  understood  and  whose  hearts  we  reached 
without  knowledge  and  without  effort ;  and  some  of 
us  have  had  an  equally  surprising  and  more  pain- 
ful experience  when,  after  years  of  love  given  and 
received,  we  find  the  friend  upon  whom  we  had 
counted  has  become  a  stranger. 

He  was  difficult  to  understand,  because  I  was 
never  sure  that  he  needed  me;  and  difficult  to  know 
intimately,  because  of  his  formidable  detachment. 
The  most  that  many  of  us  could  hope  for  was  that 
he  had  a  taste  in  us  as  one  might  have  in  clocks 
or  furniture. 

Balfour  was  blessed  or  cursed  at  his  birth,  accord- 
ing to  individual  opinion,  by  two  assets :  charm  and 
wits.  The  first  he  possessed  to  a  greater  degree 
than  any  man,  except  John  Morley,  that  I  have 
ever  met.  His  social  distinction,  exquisite  atten- 
tion, intellectual  tact,  cool  grace  and  lovely  bend 
of  the  head  made  him  not  only  a  flattering  listener, 
but  an  irresistible  companion.  The  disadvantage 
of  charm — which  makes  me  say  cursed  or  blessed— 

[257] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

is  that  it  inspires  every  one  to  combine  and  smooth 
the  way  for  you  throughout  life.  As  the  earnest 
housemaid  removes  dust,  so  all  his  friends  and  rela- 
tions kept  disagreeable  things  from  his  path;  and 
this  gave  him  more  leisure  in  his  life  than  any  one 
ought  to  have. 

His  wits,  with  which  I  say  that  he  was  also  cursed 
or  blessed — quite  apart  from  his  brains — gave  him 
confidence  in  his  improvisings  and  the  power  to 
sustain  any  opinion  on  any  subject,  whether  he 
held  the  opinion  or  not,  with  equal  brilliance,  plau- 
sibility and  success,  according  to  his  desire  to  dis- 
pose of  you  or  the  subject.  He  either  finessed  with 
the  ethical  basis  of  his  intellect  or  had  none.  This 
made  him  unintelligible  to  the  average  man,  unfor- 
givable to  the  fanatic  and  a  god  to  the  blunderer. 

On  one  occasion  my  husband  and  I  went  to  a 
lunch,  given  by  old  Mr.  McEwan,  to  meet  Mr. 
Frank  Harris.  I  might  have  said  what  my  sister 
Laura  did,  when  asked  if  she  had  enjoyed  herself  at 
a  similar  meal.  "I  would  not  have  enjoyed  it  if  I 
hadn't  been  there,"  as,  with  the  exception  of  Arthur 
Balfour,  I  did  not  know  a  soul  in  the  room.  He  sat 
like  a  prince,  with  his  sphinx-like  imperviousness 
to  bores,  courteous  and  concentrated  on  the  lan- 
[258] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

guishing  conversation.  I  made  a  few  gallant 
efforts  and  my  husband,  who  is  particularly  good 
on  these  self-conscious  occasions,  did  his  best  .  .  . 
but  to  no  purpose. 

Frank  Harris,  in  a  general  disquisition  to  the 
table,  at  last  turned  to  Arthur  Balfour  and  said, 
with  an  air  of  finality: 

"The  fact  is,  Mr.  Balfour,  all  the  faults  of  the 
age  come  from  Christianity  and  journalism." 

To  which  Arthur  replied  with  rapier  quickness 
and  a  child-like  air: 

"Christianity,  of  course  .  .  .  but  why 
journalism?" 

When  men  said,  which  they  have  done  now  for 
over  thirty  years,  that  Arthur  Balfour  was  too 
much  of  a  philosopher  to  be  really  interested  in 
politics,  I  always  contradicted  them.  With  his 
intellectual  taste,  perfect  literary  style  and  keen 
interest  in  philosophy  and  religion,  nothing  but  a 
great  love  of  politics  could  account  for  his  not 
having  given  up  more  of  his  time  to  writing.  People 
thought  that  he  was  not  interested  because  he  had 
nothing  active  in  his  political  aspirations;  he  saw 
nothing  that  needed  changing.    Low  wages,  drink, 

[259] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

disease,  sweating  and  overcrowding  did  not  con- 
cern him;  they  left  him  cold,  and  he  had  not  the 
power  to  express  moral  indignation  which  he  was 
too  detached  to  feel. 

He  was  a  great  Parliamentarian,  a  brilliant 
debater  and  a  famous  Irish  Secretary  in  difficult 
times,  but  his  political  energies  lay  in  tactics.  He 
took  a  Puck-like  pleasure  in  watching  the  game 
of  party  politics,  not  in  the  interests  of  any  par- 
ticular political  party,  nor  from  esprit  de  corps, 
but  from  taste.  This  was  very  conspicuous  in  the 
years  1903  to  1906,  during  the  fiscal  controversy; 
but  any  one  with  observation  could  watch  this 
peculiarity  carried  to  a  fine  art  wherever  and  when- 
ever the  Government  to  which  he  might  be  attached 
was  in  a  tight  place. 

Politically,  what  he  cared  most  about  were  prob- 
lems of  national  defence.  He  inaugurated  the 
Committee  of  Defence  and  appointed  as  its  per- 
manent Chairman  the  Prime  Minister  of  the  day; 
everything  connected  with  the  size  of  the  army  and 
navy  interested  him.  The  size  of  your  army,  how- 
ever, must  depend  on  the  aims  and  quality  of  your 
diplomacy ;  and,  if  you  have  Junkers  in  your  For- 
[260] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

eign  Office  and  jesters  on  your  War  Staff,  you 
must  have  permanent  conscription.  It  is  difficult 
to  imagine  any  one  in  this  country  advocating  a 
large  standing  army  plus  a  navy,  which  is  vital  to 
us ;  but  such  there  were  and  such  there  will  always 
be.  With  the  minds  of  these  militarists,  protection- 
ists and  conscriptionists,  Arthur  Balfour  had  noth- 
ing in  common  at  any  time.  He  and  the  men  of 
his  opinions  were  called  the  Blue  Water  School; 
they  deprecated  fear  of  invasion  and  in  consequence 
were  violently  attacked  by  the  Tories.  But,  in 
spite  of  an  army  corps  of  enthusiasts  kept  upon  our 
coasts  to  watch  the  traitors  with  towels  signalling 
to  the  sea  with  full  instructions  where  to  drive  the 
county  cows  to,  no  German  army  during  the  great 
War  attempted  to  land  upon  our  shores,  thus 
amply  justifying  Arthur  Balfour's  views. 

The  artists  who  have  expressed  with  the  greatest 
perfection  human  experience,  from  an  external 
point  of  view,  he  delighted  in.  He  preferred  ap- 
peals to  his  intellect  rather  than  claims  upon  his 
feelings.  Handel  in  music.  Pope  in  poetry,  Scott 
in  narration,  Jane  Austen  in  fiction  and  Sainte- 
Beuve  in  criticism  supplied  him  with  everything  he 

[261] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

wanted.     He   hated   introspection   and   shunned 
emotion. 

What  interested  me  most  and  what  I  liked  best 
in  Arthur  Balfour  was  not  his  charm  or  his  wit — 
and  not  his  politics — but  his  writing  and  his  re- 
ligion. 

Any  one  who  has  read  his  books  with  a  searching 
mind  will  perceive  that  his  faith  in  God  is  what  has 
really  moved  him  in  life;  and  no  one  can  say  that 
he  has  not  shown  passion  here.  Rehgious  specula- 
tion and  contemplation  were  so  much  more  to  him 
than  anything  else  that  he  felt  justified  in  treating 
politics  and  society  with  a  certain  levity. 

His  mother.  Lady  Blanche  Balfour,  was  a  sister 
of  the  late  Lord  Salisbury  and  a  woman  of  influ- 
ence. I  was  deeply  impressed  by  her  character  as 
described  in  a  short  private  life  of  her  written 
by  the  late  minister  of  Whittingehame,  Mr.  Robert- 
son. I  should  be  curious  to  know,  if  it  were  pos- 
sible, how  many  men  and  women  of  mark  in  this 
generation  have  had  religious  mothers.  I  think 
much  fewer  than  in  mine.  My  husband's  mother, 
Mr.  McKenna's  and  Lord  Haldane*s  were  all  pro- 
foundly religious, 
.        [262] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

This  is  part  of  one  of  Lady  Blanche  Balfour's 
prayers,  written  at  the  age  of  twenty-six: 

From  the  dangers  of  metaphysical  subtleties 
and  from  profitless  speculation  on  the  origin  of  evil 
— Good  Lord  deliver  me. 

From  hardness  of  manner,  coldness,  misplaced 
sarcasm,  and  all  errors  and  imperfections  of  man- 
ner or  habit,  from  words  and  deeds  by  which  Thy 
good  may  be  evil-spoken  of  through  me,  or  not 
promoted  to  the  utmost  of  my  ability — Good  Lord 
deliver  me. 

Teach  me  my  duties  to  superiors,  equals  and 
inferiors.  Give  me  gentleness  and  kindliness  of 
manner  and  perfect  tact;  a  thoughtful  heart  such 
as  Thou  lovest ;  leisure  to  care  for  the  little  things 
of  others,  and  a  habit  of  realising  in  my  own  mind 
their  positions  and  feelings. 

Give  me  grace  to  trust  my  children — ^with  the 
peace  that  passeth  all  understanding — ^to  Thy  love 
and  care.  Teach  me  to  use  my  influence  over  each 
and  all,  especially  children  and  servants,  aright,  that 
I  may  give  account  of  this,  as  well  as  of  every  other 
talent,  with  joy — and  especially  that  I  may  guide 
with  the  love  and  wisdom  which  are  far  above  the 
religious  education  of  my  children. 

By  Lady  Blanche  Balfour,  1851. 

Born  and  bred  in  the  Lowlands  of  Scotland, 
Arthur  Balfour  avoided  the  narrowness  and  mate- 
rialism of  the  extreme  High  Church ;  but  he  was  a 

[263] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

strong  Churchman.  I  wrote  in  a  very  early  diary: 
"I  wish  Arthur  would  write  something  striking  on 
the  Established  Church,  as  he  could  express  better 
than  any  one  living  how  much  its  influence  for  good 
in  the  future  will  depend  on  the  spirit  in  which 
it  is  worked." 

His  mind  was  more  critical  than  constructive; 
and  those  of  his  religious  writings  which  I  have 
read  have  been  purely  analytical.  My  attention 
was  first  arrested  by  an  address  he  delivered  at  the 
Church  Congress  at  Manchester  in  1888.  The  sub- 
ject which  he  chose  was  Positivism,  without  any 
special  reference  to  the  peculiarities  of  Comte's 
system.  He  called  it  The  Religion  of  Humanity.* 
In  this  essay  he  first  dismisses  the  purely  scientific 
and  then  goes  on  to  discuss  the  Positivist  view  of 
man.  The  following  passages  will  give  some  idea 
of  his  manner  and  style  of  writing: 

Man,  so  far  as  natural  science  itself  is  able  to 
teach  us,  is  no  longer  the  final  cause  of  the  universe, 
the  heaven-descended  heir  of  all  the  ages.  His  very 
existence  is  an  accident,  his  history  a  brief  and 
discreditable  episode  in  the  life  of  one  of  the  mean- 
est of  the  planets.    Of  the  combination  of  causes 

•An   essay   delivered   at   the   Church   Congress,   Manchester,   and 
printed  in  a  pamphlet 

[264] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

which  first  converted  a  piece  or  pieces  of  unorgan- 
ised jelly  into  the  living  progenitors  of  humanity, 
science  indeed,  as  yet,  knows  nothing.  It  is  enough 
that  from  such  beginnings,  Famine,  Disease,  and 
Mutual  Slaughter,  fit  nurses  of  the  future  lord  of 
creation,  have  gradually  evolved,  after  infinite 
travail,  a  race  with  conscience  enough  to  know  that 
it  is  vile,  and  intelligence  enough  to  know  that  it 
is  insignificant.  We  survey  the  past  and  see  that 
its  history  is  of  blood  and  tears,  of  helpless  blunder- 
ing, of  wild  revolt,  of  stupid  acquiescence,  of  empty 
aspirations.  We  sound  the  future,  and  learn  that 
after  a  period,  long  compared  with  the  individual 
life,  but  short  indeed  compared  with  the  divisions 
of  time  open  to  our  investigation,  the  energies  of 
our  system  will  decay,  the  glory  of  the  sun  will  be 
dimmed,  and  the  earth,  tideless  and  inert,  will  no 
longer  tolerate  the  race  which  has  for  a  moment 
disturbed  its  solitude.  Man  will  go  down  into  the 
pit,  and  all  his  thoughts  will  perish.  The  uneasy 
consciousness,  which  in  this  obscure  corner  has  for 
a  brief  space  broken  the  contented  silence  of  the 
Universe,  will  be  at  rest.  Matter  will  know  itself 
no  longer.  Imperishable  monuments  and  immortal 
deeds,  death  itself,  and  love  stronger  than  death, 
will  be  as  though  they  had  never  been.  Nor  will 
anything  that  is  be  better  or  be  worse  for  all  that 
the  labour,  genius,  devotion,  and  suffering  of  man 
have  striven  through  countless  generations  to 
effect. 

He  continues  on  Positivism  as  an  influence  that 
cannot  be  disregarded: 

[2651 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

One  of  the  objects  of  the  **religion  of  humanity," 
and  it  is  an  object  beyond  all  praise,  is  to  stimulate 
the  imagination  till  it  lovingly  embraces  the  remot- 
est fortunes  of  the  whole  human  family.  But  in 
proportion  as  this  end  is  successfully  attained,  in 
proportion  as  we  are  taught  by  this  or  any  other 
religion  to  neglect  the  transient  and  the  personal, 
and  to  count  ourselves  as  labourers  for  that  which 
is  universal  and  abiding,  so  surely  must  be  the  in- 
creasing range  which  science  is  giving  to  our  vision 
over  the  time  and  spaces  of  the  material  universe, 
and  the  decreasing  importance  of  the  place  which 
man  is  seen  to  occupy  in  it,  strike  coldly  on  our 
moral  imagination,  if  so  be  that  the  material  uni- 
verse is  all  we  have  to  do  with.  My  contention  is 
that  every  such  religion  and  every  such  philosophy, 
so  long  as  it  insists  on  regarding  man  as  merely 
a  phenomenon  among  phenomena,  a  natural  object 
among  other  natural  objects,  is  condemned  by 
science  to  failure  as  an  effective  stimulus  to  high 
endeavour.  Love,  pity,  and  endurance  it  may  in- 
deed leave  with  us;  and  this  is  well.  But  it  so 
dwarfs  and  impoverishes  the  ideal  end  of  human 
effort,  that  though  it  may  encourage  us  to  die  with 
dignity,  it  hardly  permits  us  to  live  with  hope. 

Apart  from  the  unvarying  love  I  have  always 

had  for  Arthur  Balfour,  I  should  be  untrue  to 

myself  if  I  did  not  feel  deeply  grateful  for  the 

unchanging  friendship  of  a  man  who  can  think  and 

write  like  this. 

•  ••••• 

[266] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Of  the  other  two  Prime  Ministers  I  cannot  write, 
though  no  one  knows  them  better  than  I  do.  By 
no  device  of  mine  could  I  conceal  my  feelings ;  both 
their  names  will  live  with  lustre,  without  my  con- 
science being  chargeable  with  frigid  impartiality 
or  fervent  partisanship,  and  no  one  will  deny  that 
all  of  us  should  be  allowed  some  "private  property 
in  thought." 


END   OF  BOOK  ONE 


[267] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

BOOK    TWO 


Psalm  xxxix 

5.  Verily  every  man  at  his  best  state  is  altogether  vanity. 

6.  Surely  every  man  walketh  in  a  vain  shew:  surely 
they  are  disquieted  in  vain:  he  heapeth  up  riches,  and 
knoweth  not  who  shall  gather  them. 

7.  And  now.  Lord,  what  wait  I  for  ?  my  hope  is  in  Thee 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  SOULS — ^LORD  CURZON's  POEM  AND  DINNER 
PARTY  AND  WHO  WERE  THERE — MARGOT's  IN- 
VENTORY OF  THE  GROUP ^TILT  WITH  THE  LATE 

LADY  LONDONDERRY — VISIT  TO  TENNYSON;  HIS 

CONTEMPT  FOR  CRITICS;  HIS  HABIT  OF  LIVING 

J.  K.  S.  NOT  A  SOUL — MARGOT's  FRIENDSHIP 
WITH  JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS;  HIS  PRAISE 
OF  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 

NO  one  ever  knew  how  it  came  about  that  I  and 
my  particular  friends  were  called  "the  Souls." 
The  origin  of  our  grouping  together  I  have  already 
explained:  we  saw  more  of  one  another  than  we 
should  probably  have  done  had  my  sister  Laura 
Lyttelton  lived,  because  we  were  in  mourning  and 
did  not  care  to  go  out  in  general  society;  but  why 
we  were  called  "Souls"  I  do  not  know. 

The  fashionable — what  was  called  the  "smart 

[11] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

set" — of  those  days  centred  round  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  afterwards  King  Edward  VII.,  and  had 
Newmarket  for  its  head-quarters.  As  far  as  I  could 
see,  there  was  more  exclusiveness  in  the  racing 
world  than  I  had  ever  observed  among  the  Souls; 
and  the  first  and  only  time  I  went  to  Newmarket 
the  welcome  extended  to  me  by  the  shrewd  and 
select  company  there  made  me  feel  exactly  like  an 
alien. 

We  did  not  play  bridge  or  baccarat  and  our 
rather  intellectual  and  literary  after-dinner  games 
were  looked  upon  as  pretentious. 

Arthur  Balfour — ^the  most  distinguished  of  the 
Souls  and  idolised  by  every  set  in  society — ^was  the 
person  who  drew  the  enemy's  fire.  He  had  been 
well  known  before  he  came  among  us  and  it  was 
considered  an  impertinence  on  our  part  to  make 
him  play  pencil-games  or  be  our  intellectual  guide 
and  critic.  Nearly  all  the  young  men  in  my  circle 
were  clever  and  became  famous;  and  the  women, 
although  not  more  intelligent,  were  less  worldly 
than  their  fashionable  contemporaries  and  many  of 
them  both  good  to  be  with  and  distinguished  to 
look  at. 

What  interests  me  most  on  looking  back  now  at 
[12] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

those  ten  years  is  the  loyalty,  devotion  and  fidelity 
which  we  showed  to  one  another  and  the  pleasure 
which  we  derived  from  friendships  that  could  not 
have  survived  a  week  had  they  been  accompanied 
by  gossip,  mocking,  or  any  personal  pettiness. 
Most  of  us  had  a  depth  of  feeling  and  moral  and 
religious  ambition  which  are  entirely  lacking  in 
the  clever  young  men  and  women  of  to-day.  Our 
after-dinner  games  were  healthier  and  more  inspir- 
ing than  theirs.  "Breaking  the  news,"  for  instance, 
was  an  entertainment  that  had  a  certain  vogue 
among  the  younger  generation  before  the  war.  It 
consisted  of  two  people  acting  together  and  con- 
veying to  their  audience  various  ways  in  which 
they  would  receive  the  news  of  the  sudden  death 
of  a  friend  or  a  relation  and  was  considered  extra- 
ordinarily funny;  it  would  never  have  amused  any 
of  the  Souls.  The  modern  habit  of  pursuing,  de- 
tecting and  exposing  what  was  ridiculous  in  simple 
people  and  the  unkind  and  irreverent  manner  in 
which  slips  were  made  material  for  epigram  were 
unbearable  to  me.  This  school  of  thought — which 
the  young  group  called  "anticant" — encouraged 
hard  sayings  and  light  doings,  which  would  have 
profoundly  shocked  the  most  frivolous  among  us. 

[13] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Brilliance  of  a  certain  kind  may  bring  people  to- 
gether for  amusement,  but  it  will  not  keep  them 
together  for  long;  and  the  young,  hard  pre-war 
group  that  I  am  thinking  of  was  short-lived. 

The  present  Lord  Curzon*  also  drew  the  enemy's 
fire  and  was  probably  more  directly  responsible  for 
the  name  of  the  Souls  than  any  one. 

He  was  a  conspicuous  young  man  of  ability, 
with  a  ready  pen,  a  ready  tongue,  an  excellent  sense 
of  humour  in  private  life  and  intrepid  social  bold- 
ness. He  had  appearance  more  than  looks,  a  keen, 
lively  face,  with  an  expression  of  enamelled  self- 
assurance.  Like  every  young  man  of  exceptional 
promise,  he  was  called  a  prig.  The  word  was  so 
misapplied  in  those  days  that,  had  I  been  a  clever 
young  man,  I  should  have  felt  no  confidence  in 
myself  till  the  world  had  called  me  a  prig.  He 
was  a  remarkably  intelligent  person  in  an  excep- 
tional generation.  He  had  ambition  and — what  he 
claimed  for  himself  in  a  brilliant  description — 
"middle-class  method";  and  he  added  to  a  kindly 
feeling  for  other  people  a  warm  corner  for  himself. 
Some  of  my  friends  thought  his  contemporaries  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  George  Wyndham  and 

•Earl  Curzon  of  Kedleaton. 

[14] 


d 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Harry  Cust,  would  go  farther,  as  the  former  prom- 
ised more  originality  and  the  latter  was  a  finer 
scholar,  but  I  always  said — and  have  a  record  of 
it  in  my  earliest  diaries — ^that  George  Curzon  would 
easily  outstrip  his  rivals.  He  had  two  incalculable 
advantages  over  them:  he  was  chronically  indus- 
trious and  self-sufficing;  and,  though  Oriental  in 
his  ideas  of  colour  and  ceremony,  with  a  poor  sense 
of  proportion,  and  a  childish  love  of  fine  people, 
he  was  never  self-indulgent.  He  neither  ate,  drank 
nor  smoked  too  much  and  left  nothing  to  chance. 

No  one  could  turn  with  more  elasticity  from 
work  to  play  than  George  Curzon;  he  was  a  first- 
rate  host  and  boon  companion  and  showed  me 
and  mine  a  steady  and  sympathetic  love  over  a 
long  period  of  years.  Even  now,  if  I  died,  although 
he  belongs  to  the  niore  conventional  and  does  not 
allow  himself  to  mix  with  people  of  opposite  politi- 
cal parties,  he  would  write  my  obituary  notice. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  am  telling,  he  was 
threatened  with  lung  trouble  and  was  ordered  to 
Switzerland  by  his  doctors.  We  were  very  unhappy 
and  assembled  at  a  farewell  banquet,  to  which  he 
entertained  us  in  the  Bachelors'  Club,  on  the  10th 
of  July,  1889.    We  found  a  poem  welcoming  us 

[15] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

on  our  chairs,  when  we  sat  down  to  dinner,  in  which 
we  were  all  honourably  and  categorically  men- 
tioned. Some  of  our  critics  called  us  "the  Gang" 
— ^to  which  allusion  is  made  here — ^but  we  were 
ultimately  known  as  the  Souls. 

This  famous  dinner  and  George's  poem  caused  a 
lot  of  fun  and  friction,  jealousy,  curiosity  and  end- 
less discussion.  It  was  followed  two  years  later 
by  another  dinner  given  by  the  same  host  to  the 
same  guests  and  in  the  same  place,  on  the  9th  of 
July,  1891. 

The  repetition  of  this  dinner  was  more  than  the 
West  End  of  London  could  stand;  and  I  was 
the  object  of  much  obloquy.  I  remember  dining 
with  Sir  Stanley  and  Lady  Clarke  to  meet  King 
Edward — ^then  Prince  of  Wales — when  my  hostess 
said  to  me  in  a  loud  voice,  across  the  table : 

"There  were  some  clever  people  in  the  world,  you 
know,  before  you  were  born.  Miss  TennantI" 

Feeling  rather  nettled,  I  replied: 

"Please  don't  pick  me  out,  Lady  Clarke,  as  if  I 
alone  were  responsible  for  the  stupid  ones  among 
whom  we  find  ourselves  to-day." 

Having  no  suspicion  of  other  people,  I  was  sel- 
[16) 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

dom  on  the  defensive  and  did  not  mean  to  be  rude, 
but  I  was  young  and  intolerant. 
This  was  George  Curzon's  poem: 

10th  JULY,  1889. 


Ho !  list  to  a  lay 

Of  that  company  gay. 
Compounded  of  gallants  and  graces. 

Who  gathered  to  dine. 

In  the  year  '89, 
In  a  haunt  that  in  Hamilton  Place  is. 

There,  there  where  they  met. 
And  the  banquet  was  set 

At  the  bidding  of  Georgius  Curzon; 
Brave  youth!  'tis  his  pride. 
When  he  errs,  that  the  side 

Of  respectable  licence  he  errs  on. 

Around  him  that  night — 
Was  there  e'er  such  a  sight? 

Souls  sparkled  and  spirits  expanded; 
For  of  them  critics  sang, 
That  tho'  christened  the  Gang, 

By  a  spiritual  link  they  were  banded. 

Souls  and  spirits,  no  doubt 

But  neither  without 
Fair  visible  temples  to  dwell  in! 

E'en  your  image  divine 

Must  be  girt  with  a  shrine. 
For  the  pious  to  linger  a  spell  in. 

[171 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

There  was  seen  at  that  feast 
Of  this  band,  the  High  Priest, 

The  heart  that  to  all  hearts  is  nearest; 
Him  may  nobody  steal 
From  the  true  Common  weal, 

Tho'  to  each  is  dear  Aethur^  the  dearest. 

America  lends, 

Nay,  she  gives  when  she  sends 
V      Such  treasures  as  Harry  ^  and  Daisy  '; 
Tho'  many  may  yearn. 
None  but  Harry  can  turn 
That  sweet  little  head  of  hers  crazy. 

There  was  much-envied  Strath* 

With  the  lady^  who  hath 
Taught  us  all  what  may  life  be  at  twenty; 

Of  pleasure  a  taste. 

Of  duty  no  waste. 
Of  gentle  philosophy  plenty. 

Kitty  Drummond  *  was  there — 

Where  was  Lawrence/  oh!  where? — 
And  my  Lord°  and  my  Lady  Granby"; 

Is  there  one  of  the  Gang 

Has  not  wept  at  the  pang 
That  he  never  can  Violet's  man  be? 

From  Wilton,  whose  streams 
Murmur  sweet  in  our  dreams, 

•  The  Right  Hon.  A.  J.  Balfour. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  White. 

■The  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Sutherland. 

*Col.  and  Mrs.  L.  Drummond. 

'Now  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Rutland. 

[18] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Come  the  EarP  and  his  Countess^  together; 
In  her  spirit's  proud  flights 
We  are  whirled  to  the  heights, 
He  sweetens  our  stay  in  the  nether. 

Dear  Evan''  was  there, 

The  first  choice  of  the  fair, 
To  all  but  himself  very  gentle! 

And  Ashridge's  lord  ^ 

Most  insufferably  bored 
With  manners  and  modes  Oriental, 

The  Shah,  I  would  bet. 

In  the  East  never  met 
Such  a  couple  as  him  and  his  consort.® 

If  the  HoRNERS^  you  add. 

That  a  man  must  be  mad 
Who  complains  that  the  Gang  is  a  wrong  sort. 

From  kindred  essay 

Lady  Mary^®  to-day 
Should  have  beamed  on  a  world  that  adores  her. 

Of  her  spouse^^  debonair 

No  woman  has  e'er 
Been  able  to  say  that  he  bores  her. 

Next  BiNGY  ^*  escorts 
His  dear  wife,^^  to  our  thoughts 
Never  lost,  though  withdrawn  from  our  vision, 

•Earl  and  Countess  of  Pembroke. 

'Hon.  Evan  Charteris. 

•Earl  and  Countess  Brownlow. 

•Sir  J.  and  Lady  Horner. 

"•Lord  and  Lady  Elcho  (now  Earl  and  Countess  of  Wernyss). 

**Ix>rd  and  Lady  Wenlock. 

[19] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

While  of  late  she  has  shown 
That  of  spirit  alone 
Was  not  fashioned  that  fair  composition. 

No,  if  humour  we  count, 

The  original  fount 
Must  to  Hugo  be  ceded  in  freehold, 

Tho'  of  equal  supplies 

In  more  subtle  disguise 
Old  GoDFREY^^  has  far  from  a  wee  holdl 

Mrs.  Eddy  ^^  has  come 

And  we  all  shall  be  dumb 
When  we  hear  what  a  lovely  voice  Emmy's  is; 

Spencer,^*  too,  would  show  what 

He  can  do,  were  it  not 
For  that  cursed  laryngeal  Nemesis. 

At  no  distance  away 

Behold  Alan*^  display 
That  smile  that  is  found  so  upsetting; 

And  Edgar*®  in  bower. 

In  statecraft,  in  power. 
The  favourite  first  in  the  betting. 

Here  a  trio  we  meet. 
Whom  you  never  will  beat, 
Tho'  wide  you  may  wander  and  far  go; 
From  what  wonderful  art 

»Mr.  Godfrey  Webb. 

"The  Hon.  Mrs.  E.  Bourke. 

"The  Hon.  Spencer  Lyttelton. 

"The  Hon.  Alan  Charteris. 

»  Sir  E.  Vincent  (now  Lord  D'Abernon). 

[20] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Of  that  Gallant  Old  Bart., 
Sprang  Charty  and  Lucy  and  M argot? 

To  LucY^^  he  gave 

The  wiles  that  enslave. 
Heart  and  tongue  of  an  angel  to  Charty*®; 

To  Margot'"  the  wit 

And  the  wielding  of  it, 
That  make  her  the  joy  of  a  party. 

Lord  Tommy^*^  is  proud 

That  to  Charty  he  vowed 
The  graces  and  gifts  of  a  true  man. 

And  proud  are  the  friends 

Of  Alfred,^^  who  blends 
The  athlete,  the  hero,  the  woman! 

From  the  Gosford  preserves 

Old  St.  John^^  deserves 
Great  praise  for  a  bag  such  as  Hilda^^  ; 

True  worth  she  esteemed, 

Overpowering  he  deemed 
The  subtle  enchantment  that  filled  her. 

Very  dear  are  the  pair, 
He  so  strong,  she  so  fair. 
Renowned  as  the  Taplovite  Winnies; 
Ah!  he  roamed  far  and  wide, 

"Mrs.  Graham  Smith. 
"Lady  Ribblesdale. 
'•Mrs.  Asquith. 
""Lord  Ribblesdale. 
-The  Hon.  Alfred  Lyttelton. 

"The  Hon.  St.  John  Brodrick  (now  Earl  of  Midleton)  and  Lady 
Hilda  Brodrick. 

[21] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Till  in  Etty'»  he  spied 
A  treasure  more  golden  than  guineas. 

Here  is  Doll^*  who  has  taught 

Us  that  "words  conceal  thought" 
In  his  case  is  a  fallacy  silly; 

Harry  Cust^^  could  display 

Scalps  as  many,  I  lay, 
From  Paris  as  in  Piccadilly, 

But  some  there  were  too — 

Thank  the  Lord  they  were  fewl 
Who  were  bidden  to  come  and  who  could  not : 

Was  there  one  of  the  lot. 

Ah!  I  hope  there  was  not. 
Looked  askance  at  the  bidding  and  would  not. 

The  brave  Little  Earl^® 

Is  away,  and  his  pearl- 
Laden  spouse,  the  imperial  Gladys^®; 

By  that  odious  gout 

Is  Lord  Cowper^^  knocked  out. 
And  the  wife^^  who  his  comfort  and  aid  is. 

Miss  Betty's  engaged. 
And  we  all  are  enraged 
That  the  illness  of  Sibeix's^®  not  over; 
George  Wyndham^^  can't  sit 

'•Mr.  and  Mrs.  Willy  Grenfell  (now  Lord  and  Ladj  Desboroug^). 

"Mr.  A.  G.  Liddell. 

'*Mr.  Harry  Cust. 

■•Earl  and  Countess  de  Grey. 

"  Earl  and  Countess  Cowpcr. 

"•Countess  Grosvenor. 

"The  late  Right  Hon.  George  Wyndham. 

[22] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

At  our  banquet  of  wit, 
Because  he  is  standing  at  Dover, 

But  we  ill  can  afford 

To  dispense  with  the  Lord 
Of  Waddesdon^^  and  ill  Harry  Chaplin'^; 

Were  he  here,  we  might  shout 

As  again  he  rushed  out 
From  the  back  of  that  **d — d  big  sapling." 

We  have  lost  Lady  Gay^^ 

'Tis  a  price  hard  to  pay 
For  that  Shah  and  his  appetite  greedy; 

And  alas !  we  have  lost — 

At  what  ruinous  cost! — 
The  charms  of  the  brilliant  Miss  D.D.^^ 

But  we've  got  in  their  place. 

For  a  gift  of  true  grace, 
Virginia's  marvellous  daughter.^* 

Having  conquered  the  States, 

She's  been  blown  by  the  Fates 
To  conquer  us  over  the  water. 

Now  this  is  the  sum 

Of  all  those  who  have  come 
Or  ought  to  have  come  to  that  banquet. 

Then  call  for  the  bowl. 

Flow  spirit  and  soul. 
Till  midnight  not  one  of  you  can  quit! 

"Baron  Ferdinand  de  Rothschild. 

"  Now  Viscount  Chaplin. 

«*Lady  Windsor  (now  Marchioness  of  Plymouth). 

"Miss  E.  Balfour  (Widow  of  the  Hon.  Alfred  Lyttelton). 

"Mrs.  Chanler,  the  American  novelifet  (now  Princess  Troubetzkoy). 

[23] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

And  blest  by  the  Gang 

Be  the  Rhymester  who  sang 
Their  praises  in  doggrel  appalling; 

More  now  were  a  sin — 

Ho,  waiters,  begin! 
Each  soul  for  consomme  is  calling! 


For  my  own  and  the  children's  interest  I  shall 
try,  however  imperfectly,  to  make  a  descriptive 
inventory  of  some  of  the  Souls  mentioned  in  this 
poem  and  of  some  of  my  friends  who  were  not. 

Gladstone's  secretary.  Sir  Algernon  West,*  and 
Godfrey  Webb  had  both  loved  Laura  and  corre- 
sponded with  her  till  she  died  and  they  spent  all 
their  holidays  at  Glen.  I  never  remember  the 
time  when  Algy  West  was  not  getting  old  and 
did  not  say  he  wanted  to  die;  but,  although  he  is 
ninety,  he  is  still  young,  good-looking  and — what 
is  even  more  remarkable — a  strong  Liberal.  He 
was  never  one  of  the  Souls,  but  he  was  a  faithful 
and  loving  early  friend  of  ours. 

Mr.  Godfrey  Webb  was  the  doyen  of  the  Souls. 
He  was  as  intunate  with  my  brothers  and  parents 
as  he  was  with  my  sisters  and  self.  Godfrey — 
or  Webber  as  some  called  him — was  not  only  a  man 

•The  Right  Hon.  Sir  Algernon  West 

[24] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

of  parts,  but  had  a  peculiar  flavour  of  his  own: 
he  had  the  sense  of  humour  and  observation  of  a 
memoirist  and  his  wit  healed  more  than  it  cut.  For 
hours  together  he  would  poke  about  the  country 
with  a  dog,  a  gun  and  a  cigar,  perfectly  indepen- 
dent and  self-sufficing,  whether  engaged  in  sport, 
repartee,  or  literature.  He  wrote  and  published 
for  private  circulation  a  small  book  of  poems  and 
made  the  Souls  famous  by  his  proficiency  at  all  our 
pencil-games.  It  would  be  unwise  to  quote  verses 
or  epigrams  that  depend  so  much  upon  the  occasion 
and  the  environment.  Only  a  George  Meredith 
can  sustain  a  preface  boasting  of  his  heroine's  wit 
throughout  the  book,  but  I  will  risk  one  example 
of  Godfrey  Webb's  quickness.  He  took  up  a  news- 
paper one  morning  in  the  dining-room  at  Glen 
and,  reading  that  a  Mr.  Pickering  Phipps  had 
broken  his  leg  on  rising  from  his  knees  at  prayer, 
he  immediately  wrote  this  couplet: 

On  bended  knees,  with  fervent  lips, 
Wrestled  with  Satan  Pickering  Phipps, 
But  when  for  aid  he  ceased  to  beg, 
The  wily  devil  broke  his  leg! 

He  spent  every  holiday  with  us  and  I  do  not 
think  he  ever  missed  being  with  us  on  the  anniver- 

[25] 


b 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

sary  of  Laura's  death,  whether  I  was  at  home  or 

abroad.    He  was  a  man  in  a  million,  the  last  of  the 

wits,  and  I  miss  him  every  day  of  my  life. 
•  •••••• 

Lord  Midleton* — better  known  as  St.  John 
Brodrick — was  my  first  friend  of  interest;  I  knew 
him  two  years  before  I  met  Arthur  Balfour  or 
any  of  the  Souls.  He  came  over  to  Glen  while  he 
was  staying  with  neighbours  of  ours. 

I  wired  to  him  not  long  ago  to  congratulate  him 
on  being  made  an  Earl  and  asked  him  in  what  year 
it  was  that  he  first  came  to  Glen;  this  is  his  answer: 

Jan.  12th,  1920. 
Dearest  Margot, 

I  valued  your  telegram  of  congratulation  the 
more  that  I  know  you  and  Henry  (who  has  given 
so  many  and  refused  all)  attach  little  value  to 
titular  distinctions.  Indeed,  it  is  the  only  truly 
democratic  trait  about  you,  except  a  general  love 
of  H'  manity,  which  has  always  put  you  on  the 
side  of  the  feeble.  I  am  relieved  to  hear  you  have 
chosen  such  a  reliable  man  as  Crewe — with  his 
literary  gifts — ^to  be  the  only  person  to  read  your 
autobiography. 

My   visit  to   Glen  in  R y's  company   was 

October,  1880,  when  you  were  sixteen.     You  and 
Laura  flashed  like  meteors  on  to  a  dreary  scene  of 

*The    Right    Hon.    the    Earl    of    Midleton,    of    Peper,    Harow, 
GodalmJng. 

[26] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

empty  seats  at  the  luncheon  table  (the  shooting 
party  didn't  come  in)  and  filled  the  room  with  light, 

electrified  the  conversation  and  made  old  R ^y 

falter  over  his  marriage  vows  within  ten  minutes. 
From  then  onwards,  you  have  always  been  the  most 
loyal  and  indulgent  of  friends,  forgetting  no  one  as 
you  rapidly  climbed  to  fame,  and  were  raffled  for 
by  all  parties — from  Sandringham  to  the  crossing- 
sweeper. 

Your  early  years  will  sell  the  book. 

Bless  you. 

St.  John. 

St.  John  Midleton  was  one  of  the  rare  people 
who  tell  the  truth.  Some  people  do  not  lie,  but  have 
no  truth  to  tell;  others  are  too  agreeable — or  too 
frightened — and  lie;  but  the  majority  are  indiffer- 
ent: they  are  the  spectators  of  life  and  feel  no 
responsibility  either  towards  themselves  or  their 
neighbour. 

He  was  fundamentally  humble,  truthful  and  one 
of  the  few  people  I  know  who  are  truly  loyal  and 
who  would  risk  telling  me,  or  any  one  he  loved, 
before  confiding  to  an  inner  circle  faults  which 
both  he  and  I  think  might  be  corrected.  I  have 
had  a  long  experience  of  inner  circles  and  am 
constantly  reminded  of  the  Spanish  proverb, 
"Remember  your  friend  has  a  friend."    I  think  you 

[27] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

should  either  leave  the  room  when  those  you  lovi 
are  abused  or  be  prepared  to  warn  them  of  what 
people  are  thinking.  This  is,  as  I  know  to  my  cost, 
an  unpopular  view  of  friendship,  but  neither  St. 
John  nor  I  would  think  it  loyal  to  join  in  the 
laughter  or  censure  of  a  friend's  folly. 

Arthur  Balfour  himself — the  most  persistent  of 
friends — remarked  laughingly: 

"St.  John  pursues  us  with  his  malignant 
fidelity."* 

This  was  only  a  coloured  way  of  saying  that 
Midleton  had  none  of  the  detachment  conmionly 
found  among  friends;  but,  as  long  as  we  are  not 
merely  responsible  for  our  actions  to  the  police,  so 
long  must  I  believe  in  trying  to  help  those  we  love. 

St.  John  has  the  same  high  spirits  and  keenness 
now  that  he  had  then  and  the  same  sweetness  and 
simplicity.  There  are  only  a  few  women  whose 
friendships  have  remained  as  loving  and  true  to  me 
since  my  girlhood  as  his — Lady  Homer,  Miss 
Tomlinson,t  Lady  Desborough,  Mrs.  Montgom- 
ery, Lady  Wemyss  and  Lady  Bridges^ — but  ever 
since  we  met  in  1880  he  has  taken  an  interest  in 

*  The  word  malignity  was  obviously  used  in  the  sense  of  the  FrencM 
malin. 
4.  Miss  May  Tomlinson,  of  Rye. 
i  Lady  Bridges,  wife  of  General  Sir  Tom  Bridges. 

[28] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHYi 

me  and  all  that  concerns  me.  He  was  much 
maligned  when  he  was  Secretary  of  State  for  War 
and  bore  it  without  blame  or  bitterness.  He  had 
infinite  patience,  intrepid  courage  and  a  high  sense 
of  duty ;  these  combined  to  give  him  a  better  place 
in  the  hearts  of  men  than  in  the  fame  of  newspapers. 
His  first  marriage  was  into  a  family  who  were 
incapable  of  appreciating  his  particular  quality  and 
flavour;  even  his  mother-in-law — a  dear  friend  of 
mine — never  understood  him  and  was  amazed  when 
I  told  her  that  her  son-in-law  was  worth  all  of  her 
children  put  together,  because  he  had  more  nature 
and  more  enterprise.  I  have  tested  St.  John  now 
for  many  years  and  never  found  him  wanting. 
•  •.•••• 

Lord  Pembroke*  and  George  Wyndham  were 
the  handsomest  of  the  Souls.  Pembroke  was  the 
son  of  Sidney  Herbert,  famous  as  Secretary  of 
State  for  War  during  the  Crimea.  I  met  him 
first  the  year  before  I  came  out.  Lord  Kitchener's 
friend.  Lady  Waterford — sister  to  the  present 
Duke  of  Beaufort — wrote  to  my  mother  asking  if 
Laura  could  dine  with  her,  as  she  had  been  thrown 
over   at   the   last  minute   and   wanted   a  young 

*  George,  13th  Earl  of  Pembroke. 

[29] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

woman.  As  my  sister  was  in  the  country,  my 
mother  sent  me.  I  sat  next  to  Arthur  Balfour; 
Lord  Pembroke  was  on  the  other  side,  round  the 
corner  of  the  table;  and  I  remember  being  intoxi- 
cated with  my  own  conversation  and  the  manner 
in  which  I  succeeded  in  making  Balfour  and  Pem- 
broke join  in.  I  had  no  idea  who  the  splendid 
stranger  was.  He  told  me  several  years  later  that 
he  had  sent  round  a  note  in  the  middle  of  that  din- 
ner to  Blanchie  Waterford,  asking  her  what  the 
name  of  the  girl  with  the  red  heels  was,  and  that, 
when  he  read  her  answer,  "Margot  Tennant,"  it 
conveyed  nothing  to  him.  This  occurred  in  1881 
and  was  for  me  an  eventful  evening.  Lord  Pem-. 
broke  was  one  of  the  four  best-looking  men  I  ever 
saw:  the  others,  as  I  have  already  said,  were  the 
late  Earl  of  Wemyss,  Mr.  Wilfrid  Blunt — whose 
memoirs  have  been  recently  published — and  Lord 
D'Abernon.*  He  was  six  foot  four,  but  his  face 
was  even  more  conspicuous  than  his  height.  There 
was  Russian  blood  in  the  Herbert  family  and  he 
was  the  eldest  brother  of  the  beautiful  Lady 
Ripon.  t     He  married   Lady   Gertrude   Talbot, 

*Our  Ambassador  in  Berlin. 

flTiC  late  wife  of  the  present  Marquis  of  Ripon. 

[30] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

daughter  of  the  twentieth  Earl  of  Shrewsbury  and 
Talbot,  who  was  nearly  as  fine  to  look  at  as  he  him- 
self. He  told  me  among  other  things  at  that  dinner 
that  he  had  known  Disraeli  and  had  been  promised 
some  minor  post  in  his  government,  but  had  been 
too  ill  at  the  time  to  accept  it.  This  developed 
into  a  discussion  on  politics  and  Peeblesshire,  lead- 
ing up  to  our  county  neighbours ;  he  asked  me  if  I 
knew  Lord  Elcho,*  of  whose  beauty  Ruskin  had 
written,  and  who  owned  property  in  my  county. 

"Elcho,"  said  he,  "always  expected  to  be  invited 
to  join  the  government,  but  I  said  to  Dizzy,  *Elcho 
is  an  impossible  politician ;  he  has  never  understood 
the  meaning  of  party  government  and  looks  upon 
it  as  dishonest  for  even  three  people  to  attempt  to 
modify  their  opinions  sufficiently  to  come  to  an 
agreement,  leave  alone  a  Cabinet!  He  is  an 
egotist!'  To  which  Disraeli  replied,  Worse  than 
that !    He  is  an  Elchoist !'  " 

Although  Lord  Pembroke's  views  on  all  subjects 
were  remarkably  wide — as  shown  by  the  book  he 
published  called  RooU — ^he  was  a  Conservative. 
We  formed  a  deep  friendship  and  wrote  to  one 

*The  father  of  the  present  Earl  of  Wemyss  and  March. 

[31] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

another  till  he  died  a  few  years  after  my  marriage. 
In  one  of  his  letters  to  me  he  added  this  postscript : 

Keep  the  outer  borders  of  your  heart's  sweet 
garden  free  from  garish  flowers  and  wild  and  care- 
less weeds,  so  that  when  your  fairy  godmother 
turns  the  Prince's  footsteps  your  way  he  may  not, 
distrusting  your  nature  or  his  own  powers,  and 
only  half-guessing  at  the  treasure  within,  tear  him- 
self reluctantly  away,  and  pass  sadly  on,  without 
perhaps  your  ever  knowing  that  he  had  been  near. 

This,  I  imagine,  gave  a  correct  impression  of  me. 
as  I  appeared  to  some  people.  "Garish  flowers" 
and  "wild  and  careless  weeds"  describe  my  lack  of 
pruning;  but  I  am  glad  George  Pembroke  put 
them  on  the  "outer,"  not  the  inner,  borders  of  my 
heart. 

In  the  tenth  verse  of  Curzon's  poem,  allusion  is 
made  to  Lady  Pembroke's  conversation,  which 
though  not  consciously  pretentious,  provoked  con- 
siderable merriment.  She  "stumbled  upwards  into 
vacuity,"  to  quote  my  dear  friend  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh. 

There  is  no  one  left  to-day  at  all  like  George 
Pembroke.  His  combination  of  intellectual  tem- 
perament, gregariousness,  variety  of  tastes — yacht- 
ing, art,  sport  and  literature — his  beauty  of  person 
[82] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

and  hospitality  to  foreigners  made  him  the  dis- 
tinguished centre  of  any  company.  His  first 
present  to  me  was  Butcher  and  Lang's  translation 
of  the  Odyssey,  in  which  he  wrote  on  the  fly-leaf, 
"To  Margot,  who  most  reminds  me  of  Homeric 
days,  1884,"  and  his  last  was  his  wedding  present, 
a  diamond  dagger,  which  I  always  wear  close  to 

my  heart. 

•         •         •        •        •         • 

Among  the  Souls,  Milly  Sutherland,  ^  Lady 
Windsor^  and  Lady  Granby^  were  the  women 
whose  looks  I  admired  most.  Lady  Brownlow,  ^ 
mentioned  in  verse  eleven,  was  Lady  Pembroke's 
handsome  sister  and  a  famous  Victorian  beauty. 
Lady  Granby — ^the  Violet  of  verse  nine,  Gladys 
Ripon^  and  Lady  Windsor  (alluded  to  as  Lady 
Gay  in  verse  twenty-eight),  were  all  women  of 
arresting  appearance:  Lady  Brownlow,  a  Roman 
coin;  Violet  Rutland,  a  Burne- Jones  Medusa; 
Gladys  Ripon,  a  court  lady;  Gay  Windsor,  an 
Italian  Primitive  and  Milly  Sutherland,  a  Scotch 
ballad.  Betty  Montgomery  was  a  brilliant  girl  and 

*  The  Dowager  Duchess  of  Sutherland. 
'The  present  Countess  of  Plymouth. 
'The  present  Duchess  of  Rutland. 

*  Countess  Brownlow,  who  died  a  few  years  ago. 
''My  friend  Lady  de  Grey. 

[83] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

the  only  unmarried  woman,  except  Mrs.  Lyttelton, 
among  us.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Sir  Henry 
Ponsonby,  Queen  Victoria's  famous  private  secre- 
tary, and  one  of  the  strongest  Liberals  I  ever  met. 
Her  sister  Maggie,  though  socially  uncouth,  had  a 
itouch  of  her  father's  genius;  she  said  of  a  court 
prelate  to  me  one  day  at  Windsor  Castle : 

"There  goes  God's  butler!" 

It  was  through  Betty  and  Maggie  Ponsonby  that 
I  first  met  my  beloved  friend,  Lady  Desborough. 
Though  not  as  good-looking  as  the  beauties  I  have 
catalogued,  nor  more  intellectual  than  Lady  Hor- 
ner or  Lady  Wemyss,  Lady  Desborough  was  the 
cleverest  of  us.  Her  flavour  was  more  delicate, 
her  social  sensibility  finer;  and  she  added  to  chronic 
presence  of  mind  undisguised  effrontery.  I  do  not 
suppose  she  was  ever  unconscious  in  her  life,  but 
she  had  no  self-pity  and  no  egotism.  She  was  not 
an  artist  in  any  way:  music,  singing,  flowers,  paint- 
ing and  colour  left  her  cold.  She  was  not  a  game- 
player  nor  was  she  sporting  and  she  never  invested 
in  parlour  tricks;  yet  she  created  more  fun  for 
other  people  than  anybody.  She  was  a  woman  of 
genius,  who,  if  subtly  and  accurately  described, 
either  in  her  mode  of  life,  her  charm,  wits  or  char- 
[34] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

acter,  would  have  made  the  fortune  of  any  novelist. 
To  an  outsider  she  might — like  all  over-agreeable 
femmes  dm,  monde — give  an  impression  of  light 
metal,  but  this  would  be  misleading.  Etty  Des- 
borough  was  fundamentally  sound,  and  the  truest 
friend  that  ever  lived.  Possessed  of  social  and 
moral  sang-froid  of  a  high  order,  she  was  too  ele- 
gant to  fall  into  the  trap  of  the  candid  friend,  but 
nevertheless  she  could,  when  asked,  give  both  coun- 
sel and  judgment  with  the  sympathy  of  a  man  and 
the  wisdom  of  a  god.  She  was  the  first  person  that 
I  sought  and  that  I  would  still  seek  if  I  were  un- 
happy, because  her  genius  lay  in  a  penetrating 
understanding  of  the  human  heart  and  a  determina- 
tion to  redress  the  balance  of  life's  unhappiness. 
Etty  and  I  attracted  the  same  people.  She  married 
Willy  Grenfell,*  a  man  to  whom  I  was  much 
attached  and  a  British  gladiator  capable  of  chal- 
lenging the  world  in  boating  and  boxing. 

Of  their  soldier  sons,  JuUan  and  Billy,  I  cannot 
write.  They  and  their  friends,  Edward  Horner, 
Charles  Lister  and  Raymond  Asquith  all  fell  in 
the  war.    They  haunt  my  heart;  I  can  see  them  in 

*Lord  Desborough  of  Taplow  Court. 

[35] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

front  of  me  now,  eternal  sentinels  of  youth  and 
manliness. 

In  spite  of  a  voracious  appetite  for  enjoyment 
and  an  expert  capacity  in  entertaining,  Etty  Des- 
borough  was  perfectly  happy  either  alone  with  her 
family  or  alone  with  her  books  and  could  endure, 
with  enviable  patience,  cold  ugly  country-seats  and 
fashionable  people.  I  said  of  her  when  I  first  knew 
her  that  she  ought  to  have  lived  in  the  days  of  the 
great  King's  mistresses.  I  would  have  gone  to  her 
if  I  were  sad,  but  never  if  I  were  guilty.  Most  of 
us  have  asked  ourselves  at  one  time  or  another 
whom  we  would  go  to  if  we  had  done  a  wicked 
thing;  and  the  interesting  part  of  this  question  is 
that  in  the  answer  you  will  get  the  best  possible  in- 
dication of  human  nature.  Many  have  said  to  me, 
**I  would  go  to  So-and-so,  because  they  would  un- 
derstand my  temptation  and  make  allowances  for 
me";  but  the  majority  would  choose  the  confidante 
most  competent  to  point  to  the  way  of  escape. 
Etty  Desborough  would  be  that  confidante. 

She  had  neither  father  nor  mother,  but  was 

brought  up  by  two  prominent  and  distinguished 

members  of  the  Souls,  my  life-long  and  beloved 

friends,  Lord  and  Lady  Cowper  of  Panshanger, 

[36] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

now,  alas,  both  dead.    Etty  had  eternal  youth  and 

was  alive  to  everything  in  life  except  its  irony. 

If  for  health  or  for  any  other  reason  I  had  been 

separated  from  my  children  when  they  were  young, 

I  would  as  soon  have  confided  them  to  the  love 

of  Etty  and  Willy  Desborough  as  to  any  of  my 

friends. 

•  •••••• 

To  illustrate  the  jealousy  and  friction  which  the 
Souls  caused,  I  must  relate  a  conversational  scrap 
I  had  at  this  time  with  Lady  Londonderry,*  which 
caused  some  talk  among  our  critics. 

She  was  a  beautiful  woman,  a  little  before  my 
day,  happy,  courageous  and  violent,  with  a  mind 
which  clung  firmly  to  the  obvious.  Though  her 
nature  was  impulsive  and  kind,  she  was  not  for- 
giving.   One  day  she  said  to  me  with  pride : 

"I  am  a  good  friend  and  a  bad  enemy.  No  kiss- 
and-make-friends  about  me,  my  dear!" 

I  have  often  wondered  since,  as  I  did  then,  what 
the  difference  between  a  good  and  a  bad  enemy  is. 

She  was  not  so  well  endowed  intellectually  as  her 
rival  Lady  de  Grey,  but  she  had  a  stronger  will 
and  was  of  sounder  temperament. 

There  was  nothing  wistful,  reflective  or  retiring 

*The  late  Marchioness  of  Londonderry. 

[37] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

about  Lady  Londonderry.  She  was  keen  and 
vivid,  but  crude  and  impenitent. 

We  were  accused  entre  autres  of  being  conceited 
and  of  talking  about  books  which  we  had  not  read, 
a  habit  which  I  have  never  had  the  temerity  to  ac- 
quire. John  Addington  Symonds — an  intimate 
friend  of  mine — ^had  brought  out  a  book  of  essays, 
which  were  not  very  good  and  caused  no  sensation. 

One  night,  after  dinner,  I  was  sitting  in  a  circle 
of  fashionable  men  and  women — ^none  of  them  par- 
ticularly intimate  with  me — when  Lady  London- 
derry opened  the  talk  about  books.  Hardly  know- 
jug  her,  I  entered  with  an  innocent  zest  into  the 
conversation.  I  was  taken  in  by  her  mention  of 
Symonds'  Studies  in  Italy ^  and  thought  she  must 
be  literary.  Launching  out  upon  style,  I  said  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  rubbish  written  about  it,  but  it 
was  essential  that  people  should  write  simply.  At 
this  some  one  twitted  me  with  our  pencil-game  of 
"Styles"  and  asked  me  if  I  thought  I  should  know 
the  author  from  hearing  a  casual  passage  read  out 
aloud  from  one  of  their  books.  I  said  that  some 
writers  would  be  easy  to  recognise — such  as  Mere- 
dith, Carlyle,  De  Quincey  or  Browning — but  that 
when  it  came  to  others — men  like  Scott  or  Froude, 
[38] 


mmm 


margot,  leading  spirit  of  the  soui.s 
(pencil  drawing  by  the  marchioness 
of  granby,  duchess  of  rutland) 


THE   RIGHT   HONORABLE   ARTHUR  JAMK8   HAI.FOCR 
AS   HE   APPEARED  IN  THE    HOUSE  OF  COMMONS 
DURING  THE  SO's 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

for  instance — I  should  not  be  so  sure  of  myself.  At 
this  there  was  an  outcry :  Froude,  having  the  finest 
style  in  the  world,  ought  surely  to  be  easily  recog- 
nised! I  was  quite  ready  to  believe  that  some  of 
the  company  had  made  a  complete  study  of 
Froude's  style,  but  I  had  not.  I  said  that  I  could 
not  be  sure,  because  his  writing  was  too  smooth 
and  perfect,  and  that,  when  I  read  him,  I  felt 
as  if  I  was  swallowing  arrow-root.  This  shocked 
vthem  profoundly  and  I  added  that,  unless  I  were 
to  stumble  across  a  horseman  coming  over  a  hill, 
or  something  equally  fascinating,  I  should  not 
even  be  sure  of  recognising  Scott's  style.  This  scan- 
dalised the  company.  Lady  Londonderry  then 
asked  me  if  I  admired  Symonds'  writing.  I  told 
her  I  did  not,  although  I  liked  some  of  his  books. 
She  seemed  to  think  that  this  was  a  piece  of  swagger 
on  my  part  and,  after  disagreeing  with  a  lofty 
shake  of  her  head,  said  in  a  challenging  manner : 

"I  should  be  curious  to  know,  Miss  Tennant, 
what  you  have  read  by  Symonds!" 

Feeling  I  was  being  taken  on,  I  replied  rather 
chillily : 

"Oh,  the  usual  sort  of  thir-r!" 

Lady  Londonderry,  visibly  irritated  and  with 

[39] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

the  confident  air  of  one  who  has  a  little  surprise  in 
store  for  the  company,  said: 

"Have  you  by  any  chance  looked  at  Essays,  Sug- 
gestive and  Speculative?" 

Margot:  "Yes,  I've  read  them  all." 

Lady  Londonderry:  "Really!  Do  you  not  ap- 
prove of  them?" 

Margot:  "Approve?  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean." 

Lady  Londonderry  :  "Do  you  not  think  the  writ- 
ing beautiful  .    .    .  the  style,  I  mean?" 

Margot:  "I  think  they  are  all  very  bad,  but  then 
I  don't  admire  Symonds'  style." 

Lady  Londonderry:  "I  am  afraid  you  have  not 
read  the  book." 

This  annoyed  me ;  I  saw  the  company  were  en- 
chanted with  their  spokeswoman,  but  I  thought  it 
unnecessarily  rude  and  more  than  foolish. 

I  looked  at  her  calmly  and  said: 

"I  am  afraid,  Lady  Londonderry,  you  have  not 
read  the  preface.  The  book  is  dedicated  to  me. 
Symonds  was  a  frie/id  of  mine  and  I  was  staying  at 
Davos  at  the  time  he  was  writing  those  essays. 
He  was  rash  enough  to  ask  me  to  read  one  of  them 
in  manuscript  and  write  whatever  I  thought  upon 
[40] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

the  margin.  This  I  did,  but  he  was  offended  by 
something  I  scribbled.  I  was  so  surprised  at  his 
minding  that  I  told  him  he  was  never  to  show  me 
any  of  his  unpublished  work  again,  at  which  he 
forgave  me  and  dedicated  the  book  to  me." 

After  this  flutter  I  was  not  taken  on  by  fashion- 
able ladies  about  books. 

•  •••••• 

Lady  Londonderry  never  belonged  to  the  Souls, 
but  her  antagonist.  Lady  de  Grey,  was  one  of  its 
chief  ornaments  and  my  friend.  She  was  a  luxu- 
rious woman  of  great  beauty,  with  perfect  manners 
and  a  moderate  sense  of  duty.  She  was  the  last  word 
in  refinement,  perception  and  charm.  There  was 
something  septic  in  her  nature  and  I  heard  her  say 
one  day  that  the  sound  of  the  cuckoo  made  her  feel 
ill;  but,  although  she  was  not  lazy  and  seldom  idle, 
she  never  developed  her  intellectual  powers  or  sus- 
tained herself  by  reading  or  study  of  any  kind.  She 
had  not  the  smallest  sense  of  proportion  and,  if  any- 
thing went  wrong  in  her  entertainments — cold 
plates,  a  flat  souffle,  or  some  one  throwing  her  over 
for  dinner — she  became  almost  impotent  from  agi- 
tation, only  excusable  if  it  had  been  some  great 
public  disaster.  She  and  Mr.  Harry  Higgins — an 

[41] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

exceptionally  clever  and  devoted  friend  of  mine — 
having  revived  the  opera,  Bohemian  society  became 
her  hobby;  but  a  tenor  in  the  country  or  a  dancer 
on  the  lawn  are  not  really  wanted;  and,  although 
she  spent  endless  time  at  Covent  Garden  and 
achieved  considerable  success,  restlessness  devoured 
her.  While  receiving  the  adoration  of  a  small  but 
influential  circle,  she  appeared  to  me  to  have  tried 
everything  to  no  purpose  and,  in  spite  of  an  exper- 
ience which  queens  and  actresses,  professionals  and 
amateurs  might  well  have  envied,  she  remained 
embarrassed  by  herself,  fluid,  brilliant  and  uneasy. 
The  personal  nobility  with  which  she  worked  her 
hospital  in  the  Great  War  years  brought  her  peace. 
•  •*.... 

Frances  Horner*  was  more  like  a  sister  to  me 
than  any  one  outside  my  own  family.  I  met  her 
when  she  was  Miss  Graham  and  I  was  fourteen. 
She  was  a  leader  in  what  was  called  the  high  art 
WilUam  Morris  School  and  one  of  the  few  girls 
who  ever  had  a  salon  in  London. 

I  was  deeply  impressed  by  her  appearance,  it 
was  the  fashion  of  the  day  to  wear  the  autumn 
desert  in  your  hair  and  "soft  shades"  of  Liberty 
velveteen;  but  it  was  neither  the  unusualness  of  her 

*Lady  Hornfir,  of  Mells,  Fromc 

[42] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

clothes  nor  the  sight  of  Burne- Jones  at  her  feet 
and  Ruskin  at  her  elbow  that  struck  me  most,  but 
what  Charty's  little  boy,  Tommy  Lister,  called  her 
"ghost  eyes"  and  the  nobility  of  her  countenance. 

There  may  be  women  as  well  endowed  with  heart, 
head,  temper  and  temperament  as  Frances  Homer, 
but  I  have  only  met  a  few:  Lady  de  Vesci  (whose 
niece,  Cynthia,  married  our  poet-son,  Herbert), 
Lady  Betty  Balfour*  and  my  daughter  Elizabeth. 
With  most  women  the  impulse  to  crab  is  greater 
than  to  praise  and  grandeur  of  character  is  sur- 
prisingly lacking  in  them;  but  Lady  Horner  com- 
prises all  that  is  best  in  my  sex. 

Mary  Wemyss  was  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
of  the  Souls  and  was  as  wise  as  she  was  just,  truth- 
ful, tactful,  and  generous.  She  might  have  been  a 
great  influence,  as  indeed  she  was  always  a  great 
pleasure,  but  she  was  both  physically  and  mentally 
badly  equipped  for  coping  with  life  and  spent  and 
wasted  more  time  than  was  justifiable  on  plans 
which  could  have  been  done  by  any  good  servant. 
It  would  not  have  mattered  the  endless  discussion 
whether  the  brougham  fetching  one  part  of  the  fam- 
ily from  one  station  and  a  bus  fetching  another  part 

*Sister  of  the  Earl  of  Lytton  and  wife  of  Mr.  Gerald  Balfour. 

[48] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

of  it  from  another  interfered  with  a  guest  catching 
a  five  or  a  five-to-five  train — which  could  or  could 
not  be  stopped — if  one  could  have  been  quite  sure 
that  Mary  Wemyss  needed  her  friend  so  much 
that  another  opportunity  would  be  given  for  an 
intimate  interchange  of  confidences;  but  plan- 
weaving  blinds  people  to  a  true  sense  of  proportion 
and  my  beloved  Mary  never  had  enough  time  for 
any  of  us.  She  is  the  only  woman  I  know  or  have 
ever  known  without  smallness  or  touchiness  of  any 
kind.  Her  juste  milieu,  if  a  trifle  becalmed, 
amounts  to  genius ;  and  I  was — and  still  am — ^more 
interested  in  her  moral,  social  and  intellectual  opin- 
ions than  in  most  of  my  friends'.  Some  years  ago 
I  wrote  this  in  my  diary  about  her: 

"Mary  is  generally  a  day  behind  the  fair  and  will 
only  hear  of  my  death  from  the  man  behind  the 
counter  who  is  struggling  to  clinch  her  over  a 
collar  for  her  chow." 


One  of  the  less  prominent  of  the  Souls  was  my 
friend,  Lionel  Tennyson.*  He  was  the  second  son 
of  the  poet  and  was  an  official  in  the  India  Office. 
He  had  an  untidy  appearance,  a  black  beard  and 

•Brother  of  the  present  Lord  Tennyson. 

[44] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

no  manners.     He  sang  German  beer-songs  in  a 
lusty  voice  and  wrote  good  verses. 

He  sent  me  many  poems,  but  I  think  these  two 
are  the  best.  The  first  was  written  to  me  on  my 
twenty-first  birthday,  before  the  Souls  came  into 
existence : 

What  is  a  single  flower  when  the  world  is  white 

with  may? 
What  is  a  gift  to  one  so  rich,  a  smile  to  one  so  gay? 
What  is  a  thought  to  one  so  rich  in  the  loving 

thoughts  of  men? 
How  should  I  hope  because  I  sigh  that  you  will 
sigh  again? 

Yet  when  you  see  my  gift,  you  may 
(Ma  bayadere  aux  yeux  de  jais) 
Think  of  me  once  to-day. 


Think  of  me  as  you  will,  dear  girl,  if  you  will  let 

me  be 
Somewhere  enshrined  within  the  fane  of  your  pure 

memory; 
Think  of  your  poet  as  of  one  who  only  thinks  of 
you, 
That  you  are  all  his  thought,  that  he  were  happy 
if  he  knew — 

You  did  receive  his  gift,  and  say 
(Ma  bayadere  aux  yeux  de  jais) 
"He  thinks  of  me  to-day." 

[45] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

And  this  is  the  second : 

She  drew  me  from  my  cosy  seat, 
She  drew  me  to  her  cruel  feet, 
She  whispered,  "Call  me  Sally!" 
I  lived  upon  her  smile,  her  sigh, 
Alas,  you  fool,  I  knew  not  I 
Was  only  her  pis-oiler. 

The  jade!  she  knew  her  business  well. 
She  made  each  hour  a  heaven  or  hell. 
For  she  could  coax  and  rally; 
She  was  so  loving,  frank  and  kind, 
That  no  suspicion  crost  my  mind 
That  I  was  her  jns-aller. 

My  brother  says  "I  told  you  so! 
Her  conduct  was  not  comme  il  faut. 
But  strictly  comme  il  fallait; 
She  swore  that  she  was  fond  and  true; 
No  doubt  she  was,  poor  girl,  but  you 
Were  only  her  pis-allerf* 

He  asked  me  what  I  would  like  him  to  give  me 
for  a  birthday  present,  and  I  said: 

"If  you  want  to  give  me  pleasure,  take  me  down 
to  your  father's  country  house  for  a  Saturday  to 
Monday." 

This  Lionel  arranged;  and  he  and  I  went  down 
to  Aldworth,  Haslemere,  together  from  London, 
[46] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

While  we  were  talking  in  the  train,  a  distin- 
guished old  lady  got  in.  She  wore  an  ample  black 
satin  skirt,  small  black  satin  slippers  in  goloshes, 
a  sable  tippet  and  a  large,  picturesque  lace  bonnet. 
Slie  did  not  appear  to  be  listening  to  our  conver- 
sation, because  she  was  reading  with  an  air  of  con- 
centration; but,  on  looking  at  her,  I  observed  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  me.  I  wore  a  scarlet  cloak 
trimmed  with  cock's  feathers  and  a  black,  three- 
cornered  hat.  When  we  arrived  at  our  station, 
the  old  lady  tipped  a  porter  to  find  out  from  my 
luggage  who  I  was;  and  when  she  died — several 
years  later — she  left  me  in  her  will  one  of  my  most 
valuable  jewels.  This  was  Lady  Margaret  Beau- 
mont; and  I  made  both  her  acquaintance  and 
friendship  before  her  death. 

Lady  Tennyson  was  an  invalid;  and  we  were 
received  on  our  arrival  by  the  poet.  Tennyson 
was  a  magnificent  creature  to  look  at.  He  had 
everything:  height,  figure,  carriage,  features  and 
expression.  Added  to  this  he  had  what  George 
Meredith  said  of  him  to  me,  "the  feminine  hint  to 
perfection."     He  greeted  me  by  saying: 

"Well,  are  you  as  clever  and  spurty  as  your 
sister  Laura?" 

[47] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  had  never  heard  the  word  "spurty"  before,  nor 
indeed  have  I  since.  To  answer  this  kind  of  frontal 
attack  one  has  to  be  either  saucy  or  servile;  so  I 
said  nothing  memorable.  We  sat  down  to  tea  and 
he  asked  me  if  I  wanted  him  to  dress  for  dinner, 
adding: 

"Your  sister  said  of  me,  you  know,  that  I  was 
both  untidy  and  dirty." 

To  which  I  replied: 

"Did  you  mind  this?'* 

Tennyson  :  "I  wondered  if  it  was  true.  Do  you 
think  I'm  dirty?" 

Margot:  "You  are  very  handsome." 

Tennyson  :  "I  can  see  by  that  remark  that  you 
think  I  am.  Very  well  then,  I  will  dress  for  dinner. 
Have  you  read  Jane  Welsh  Carlyle's  letters?" 

Margot:  "Yes,  I  have,  and  I  think  them  excel- 
lent. It  seems  a  pity,"  I  added,  with  the  common- 
place that  is  apt  to  overcome  one  in  a  first  conver- 
sation with  a  man  of  eminence,  "that  they  were  ever 
married;  with  any  one  but  each  other,  they  might 
have  been  perfectly  happy." 

Tennyson:  "I  totally  disagree  with  you.     By 
any  other  arrangement  four  people  would  have 
been  unhappy  instead  of  two." 
[48] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

After  this  I  went  up  to  my  room.  The  hours  kept 
at  Aldworth  were  peculiar;  we  dined  early  and 
after  dinner  the  poet  went  to  bed.  At  ten  o'clock 
he  came  downstairs  and,  if  asked,  would  read  his 
poetry  to  the  company  till  past  midnight. 

I  dressed  for  dinner  with  great  care  that  first 
night  and,  placing  myself  next  to  him  when  he  came 
down,  I  asked  him  to  read  out  loud  to  me. 

Tennyson:  "What  do  you  want  me  to  read?" 

Margot:  "'Maud'' 

Tennyson:  "That  was  the  poem  I  was  cursed 
for  writing!  When  it  came  out  no  word  was  bad 
enough  for  me !  I  was  a  blackguard,  a  ruffian  and 
an  atheist!  You  will  live  to  have  as  great  a  con- 
tempt for  literary  critics  and  the  public  as  I  have, 
my  child!" 

While  he  was  speaking,  I  found  on  the  floor, 
among  piles  of  books,  a  small  copy  of  Maud,  a 
shilling  volimie,  bound  in  blue  paper.  I  put  it  into 
his  hands  and,  pulling  the  lamp  nearer  him,  he 
began  to  read. 

There  is  only  one  man — a  poet  also — who  reads 
as  my  host  did;  and  that  is  my  beloved  friend, 
Professor  Gilbert  Murray.     When  I  first  heard 

[49] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

him  at  Oxford,  I  closed  my  eyes  and  felt  as  if  the 
old  poet  were  with  me  again. 

Tennyson's  reading  had  the  lilt,  the  tenderness 
and  the  rhythm  that  makes  music  in  the  soul.  It 
was  neither  singing,  nor  chanting,  nor  speaking, 
but  a  subtle  mixture  of  the  three;  and  the  effect 
upon  me  was  one  of  haunting  harmonies  that  left 
me  profoundly  moved. 

He  began,  "  Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden," 
and,  skipping  the  next  four  sections,  went  on  to, 
"  I  have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  friend," 
and  ended  with: 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear. 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "She  is  near,  she  is  near;'* 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "She  is  late;" 
The  larkspur  listens,  "I  hear,  I  hear;" 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread. 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthly  bed ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

[60] 


yTi 


^^tffi^hv 


t/ih^'huus&t  hiJiZ  ti  h\  htMhiM.  f^^^' 


LORD    TENNYSON'S    TRIBUTE    TO    SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 

[51] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

When  he  had  finished,  he  pulled  me  on  to  his 
knee  and  said: 

"Many  may  have  written  as  well  as  that,  but 
nothing  that  ever  sounded  so  well!" 

I  could  not  speak. 

He  then  told  us  that  he  had  had  an  unfortunate 
experience  with  a  young  lady  to  whom  he  was 
reading  Maud. 

"She  was  sitting  on  my  knee,"  he  said,  "as  you 
are  doing  now,  and  after  reading, 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
When  twilight  was  falling, 
Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 
They  were  crying  and  calling, 

I  asked  her  what  bird  she  thought  I  meant.  She 
said,  A  nightingale.'  This  made  me  so  angry  that 
I  nearly  flung  her  to  the  ground :  *No,  fool !  .  .  . 
Rook!' said  I." 

I  got  up,  feeling  rather  sorry  for  the  young 
lady,  but  was  so  afraid  he  was  going  to  stop 
reading  that  I  quickly  opened  The  Princess  and 
put  it  into  his  hands,  and  he  went  on. 

I  still  possess  the  little  Maud,  bound  in  its  blue 
paper  cover,  out  of  which  he  read  to  us,  with  my 
name  written  in  it  by  Tennyson. 

[53] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

The  morning  after  my  arrival  I  was  invited  by 
our  host  to  go  for  a  walk  with  him,  which  flattered 
me  very  much;  but  after  walking  at  a  great  pace 
over  rough  ground  for  two  hours  I  regretted  my 
vanity.  Except  my  brother  Glenconner  I  never 
met  such  an  easy  mover.  The  most  characteristic 
feature  left  on  my  mind  of  that  walk  was  Tenny- 
son's appreciation  of  other  poets. 

•  •••••• 

Writing  of  poets,  I  come  to  George  Wyndham,* 
It  would  be  superfluous  to  add  anything  to  what 
has  already  been  published  of  him,  but  he  was 
among  the  best-looking  and  most  lovable  of  my 
circle. 

He  was  a  young  man  of  nature  endowed  with 
even  greater  beauty  than  his  sister,  Lady  Glen- 
conner, but  with  less  of  her  literary  talent.  Al- 
though his  name  will  always  be  associated  with  the 
Irish  Land  Act,  he  was  more  interested  in  literature 
than  politics,  and,  with  a  little  self-discipline,  might 
have  been  eminent  in  both. 

Mr.  Harry  Cust  is  the  last  of  the  Souls  that  I 
intend  writing  about  and  was  in  some  ways  the 
rarest  end  the  most  brilliant  of  them  all.    Some  one 

*The  late  Right  Hon.  George  Wyndham. 

I  [54] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

who  knew  him  well  wrote  truly  of  him  after  he  died : 

"He  tossed  off  the  cup  of  life  without  fear  of  it 
containing  any  poison,  but  like  many  wilful  men  he 
was  deficient  in  will-power." 

The  first  time  I  ever  saw  Harry  Cust  was  in 
Grosvenor  Square,  where  he  had  come  to  see  my 
sister  Laura.  A  few  weeks  later  I  found  her 
making  a  sachet,  which  was  an  unusual  occupation 
for  her,  and  she  told  me  if  was  for  ''Mr.  Cust," 
who  was  going  to  Australia  for  his  health. 

He  remained  abroad  for  over  a  year  and,  on  the 
night  of  the  Jubilee,  1887,  he  walked  into  our  house 
where  we  were  having  supper.  He  had  just  re- 
turned from  Australia,  and  was  terribly  upset  to 
hear  that  Laura  was  dead. 

Harry  Cust  had  an  untiring  enthusiasm  for  life. 
At  Eton  he  had  been  captain  of  the  school  and  he 
was  a  scholar  of  Trinity.  He  had  as  fine  a  memory 
as  Professor  Churton  Collins  or  my  husband  and 
an  unplumbed  sea  of  knowledge,  quoting  with  equal 
ease  both  poetry  and  prose.  He  edited  the  Pall 
Mall  Gazette  brilliantly  for  several  years.  With 
his  youth,  brains  and  looks,  he  might  have  done 
anything  in  life;  but  he  was  fatally  self-indulgent 
and  success  with  my  sex  damaged  his  public  career. 

[55] 


m> 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

He  was  a  fastidious  critic  and  a  faithful  friend, 
fearless,  reckless  and  unforgettable. 

He  wrote  one  poem,  which  appeared  anony- 
mously in  the  Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse: 

Not  unto  us,  O  Lord, 

Not  unto  us  the  rapture  of  the  day. 

The  peace  of  night,  or  love's  divine  surprise. 

High  heart,  high  speech,  high  deeds  *mid  honouring 

eyes; 
For  at  Thy  word 
All  these  are  taken  away. 

Not  unto  us,  O  Lord: 

To  us  Thou  givest  the  scorn,  the  scourge,  the  scar, 

The  ache  of  life,  the  loneliness  of  death. 

The  insufferable  sufficiency  of  breath ; 

And  with  Thy  sword 

Thou  piercest  very  far. 

Not  unto  us,  O  Lord : 

Nay,  Lord,  but  unto  her  be  all  things  given — 

My  light  and  life  and  earth  and  sky  be  blasted — 

But  let  not  all  that  wealth  of  love  be  wasted: 

Let  Hell  afford 

The  pavement  of  her  Heaven! 

I  print  also  a  letter  in  verse  sent  to  me  on  October 
20th,  1887: 

I  came  in  to-night,  made  as  woful  as  worry  can. 
Heart  Uke  a  turnip  and  head  like  a  hurricane, 

[56] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

When  lo !  on  my  dull  eyes  there  suddenly  leaped  a 
Bright  flash  of  your  writing,  du  Herzensgeliebte ; 
And  I  found  that  the  life  I  was  thinking  so  leavable 
Had  still  something  in  it  made  living  conceivable; 
And  that,  spite  of  the  sores  and  the  bores  and  the 

flaws  in  it. 
My  own  life's  the  better  for  small  bits  of  yours  in  it ; 
And  it's  only  to  tell  you  just  that  that  I  write  to 

you, 
And  just  for  the  pleasure  of  saying  good  night  to 

you: 
For  I've  nothing  to  tell  you  and  nothing  to  talk 

about, 
Save  that  1  eat  and  I  sleep  and  I  walk  about. 
Since  three  days  past  does  the  indolent  I  bury 
Myself  in  the  JBritish  Museum  Lib'ary, 
Trying  in  writing  to  get  in  my  hand  a  bit, 
And  reading  Dutch  books  that  I  don't  understand 

a  bit: 
But  to-day  Lady  Charty  and  sweet  Mrs.  Lucy  em- 
Broidered  the  dusk  of  the  British  Museum, 
And  made  me  so  happy  by  talking  and  laughing  on 
That  I  loved  them  more  than  the  frieze  of  the 

Parthenon. 
But  I'm  sleepy  I  know  and  don't  know  if  I  silly 

ain't ; 
Dined  to-night  with  your  sisters,  where  Tommy 

was  brilliant; 
And,  while  I  the  rest  of  the  company  deafened,  I 
Dallied  awhile  with  your  auntlet  of  seventy, 
While  one,  Mr.  Winsloe,  a  volume  before  him, 
Regarded  us  all  with  a  moody  decorum. 

[57] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

No,  I  can't  keep  awake,  and  so,  bowing  and  blessing 

you, 
And  seeing  and  loving  (while  slowly  undressing) 

you, 
Take  your  small  hand  and  kiss,  with  a  drowsed 

benediction,  it 
Knowing,  as  you,  I*m  your  ever  affectionate 

Harry  C.  C. 


I  had  another  friend,  James  Kenneth  Stephen, 
too  pagan,  wayward  and  lonely  to  be  available  for 
the  Souls,  but  a  man  of  genius.  One  after- 
noon he  came  to  see  me  in  Grosvenor  Square  and, 
being  told  by  the  footman  that  I  was  riding  in  the 
Row,  he  asked  for  tea  and,  while  waiting  for  me 
wrote  the  following  parody  of  Kipling  and  left  it 
on  my  writing-table  with  his  card: 

P.S.    The  Man  who  Wrote  It. 


We  all  called  him  The  Man  who  Wrote  It.  And 
we  called  It  what  the  man  wrote,  or  It  for  short — 
all  of  us  that  is,  except  The  Girl  who  Read  It.  She 
never  called  anything  "It."  She  wasn't  that  sort 
of  girl,  but  she  read  It,  which  was  a  pity  from  the 
point  of  view  of  The  Man  who  Wrote  It. 

The  man  is  dead  now. 

Dropped  down  a  cud  out  beyond  Karachi,  and 
was  brought  home  more  like  broken  meat  in  a 
basket.    But  that's  another  story. 

[58] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  girl  read  It,  and  told  It,  and  forgot  all  about 
It,  and  in  a  week  It  was  all  over  the  station.  I 
heard  it  from  Old  Bill  Buffles  at  the  club  while  we 
were  smoking  between  a  peg  and  a  hot  weather 
dawn. 

J.  j\.*  d* 

I  was  delighted  with  this.  Another  time  he 
wrote  a  parody  of  Myers'  St.  Paul  for  me.  I  will 
only  quote  one  verse  out  of  the  eight : 

Lo!  what  the  deuce  I'm  always  saying  "Lot"  for 
God  is  aware  and  leaves  me  uninformed. 
Lo !  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  to  go  for, 
Lo!  there  is  naught  inadequately  formed. 

He  ended  by  signing  his  name  and  writing: 

Souvenez-vous  si  les  vers  que  je  trace 

Fussent  parfois  (jel'avoue!)  I'argot, 

Si  vous  trouvez  un  peu  trop  d'audace 

On  ose  tout  quand  on  se  dit 

"Margot." 

My  dear  friend  J.K.S.  was  responsible  for  the 
aspiration  frequently  quoted: 

When  the  Rudyards  cease  from  Kipling 
And  the  Haggards  ride  no  more. 

Although  I  can  hardly  claim  Symonds  as  a  Soul, 
he  was  so  much  interested  in  me  and  my  friends 
that  I  must  write  a  short  account  of  him. 

[59] 


I 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  was  nursing  my  sister,  Pauline  Gordon  Duff, 
when  I  first  met  John  Addington  Symonds,  in 
1885,  at  Davos. 

I  dimbed  up  to  Am  Hof*  one  afternoon  with  a 
letter  of  introduction,  which  was  taken  to  the  family 
while  I  was  shown  into  a  wooden  room  full  of 
charming  things.  As  no  one  came  near  me,  I 
presumed  every  one  was  out,  so  I  settled  down 
peacefully  among  the  books,  prepared  to  wait.  In 
a  little  time  I  heard  a  shuffle  of  slippered  feet  and 
some  one  pausing  at  the  open  door. 

"Hass  he  gone?"  was  the  querulous  question  that 
came  from  behind  the  screen. 

And  in  a  moment  the  thin,  curious  face  of  John 
Addington  Symonds  was  peering  at  me  round  the 
corner. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  answer: 

"No  I  am  afraid  she  is  still  here!" 

Being  the  most  courteous  of  men,  he  smiled  and 
took  my  hand;  and  we  went  up  to  his  library 
together. 

Symonds  and  I  became  very  great  friends. 

After  putting  my  sister  to  bed  at  9.30,  I  climbed 
every  night  by  starlight  up  to  Am  Hof,  where  we 

•J.  A.  Synionds'i  country  house. 

[60] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

talked  and  read  out  loud  till  one  and  often  two  in 
the  morning.  I  learnt  more  in  those  winter  nights 
at  Davos  than  I  had  ever  learnt  in  my  life.  We 
read  The  Republic  and  all  the  Plato  dialogues 
together;  Swift,  Voltaire,  Browning,  Walt  Whit- 
man, Edgar  Poe  and  Symonds'  own  Renaissance, 
besides  passages  from  every  author  and  poet, 
which  he  would  turn  up  feverishly  to  illustrate  what 
he  wanted  me  to  understand. 

I  shall  always  think  Lord  Morley*  the  best  talker 
I  ever  heard  and  after  him  I  would  say  Symonds, 
Birrell  and  Bergson.  George  Meredith  was  too 
much  of  a  prima  domia  and  was  very  deaf  and 
uninterruptable  when  I  knew  him,  but  he  was 
amazingly  good  even  then.  Alfred  Austin  was  a 
friend  of  his  and  had  just  been  made  Poet  Laureate 
by  Lord  Salisbury,  when  my  beloved  friend 
Admiral  Maxse  took  me  down  to  the  country  to 
see  Meredith  for  the  first  time.  Feeling  more  than 
usually  stupid,  I  said  to  him : 

"Well  Mr.  Meredith,  I  wonder  what  your  friend 
Alfred  Austin  thinks  of  his  appointment?" 

Shaking  his  beautiful  head  he  replied: 

"It  is  very  hard  to  say  what  a  bantam  is  thinking 
when  it  is  crowing." 

•Viscount  Morley  of  Blackburn. 

[61] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Symonds'  conversation  is  described  in  Steven- 
son's essay  on  Talks  and  Talkers,  but  no  one  could 
ever  really  give  the  fancy,  the  epigram,  the  swift- 
ness and  earnestness  with  which  he  not  only  ex- 
pressed himself  but  engaged  you  in  conversation. 
This  and  his  affection  combined  to  make  him  an 
enchanting  companion. 

The  Swiss  postmen  and  woodmen  constantly 
joined  us  at  midnight  and  drank  Italian  wines  out 
of  beautiful  glass  which  our  host  had  brought  from 
Venice ;  and  they  were  our  only  interruptions  when 
Mrs.  Symonds  and  the  handsome  girls  went  to  bed. 
I  have  many  memories  of  seeing  our  peasant 
friends  off  from  Symonds'  front  door,  and  standing 
by  his  side  in  the  dark,  listening  to  the  crack  of  their 
whips  and  their  yodels  yelled  far  down  the  snow 
roads  into  the  starry  skies. 

When  I  first  left  him  and  returned  to  England, 
Mrs.  Symonds  told  me  he  sat  up  all  night,  filling 
a  blank  book  with  his  own  poems  and  translations, 
which  he  posted  to  me  in  the  early  morning.  We 
corresponded  till  he  died;  and  I  have  kept  every 
letter  that  he  ever  wrote  to  me. 

He  was  the  first  person  who  besought  me  to 
write.  If  only  he  were  alive  now,  I  would  show  him 
[62] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

this  manuscript  and,  if  any  one  could  make  any- 
thing of  it  by  counsel,  sympathy  and  encourage- 
ment ;  my  autobiography  might  become  famous. 

"You  have  Voreille  juste"  he  would  say,  "and  I 
value  your  literary  judgment." 

I  will  here  insert  some  of  his  letters,  beginning 
with  the  one  he  sent  down  to  our  villa  at  Davos 
a  propos  of  the  essays  over  which  Lady  iiOndon- 
derry  and  I  had  our  little  breeze: 

I  am  at  work  upon  a  volume  of  essays  in  art  and 
criticism,  puzzling  to  my  brain  and  not  easy  to 
write.    I  think  I  shall  ask  you  to  read  them. 

I  want  an  intelligent  audience  before  I  publish 
them.  I  want  to  "try  them  on"  somebody's  mind 
— like  a  dress — ^to  see  how  they  fit.  Only  you  must 
promise  to  write  observations  and,  most  killing 
remark  of  all,  to  say  when  the  tedium  of  read- 
ing them  begins  to  overweigh  the  profit  of  my 
philosophy. 

I  think  you  could  help  me. 

After  the  publication  he  wrote : 

I  am  sorry  that  the  Essays  I  dedicated  to  you 
have  been  a  failure — as  I  think  they  have  been — 
to  judge  by  the  opinions  of  the  Press.  I  wanted, 
when  I  wrote  them,  only  to  say  the  simple  truth  of 
what  I  thought  and  felt  in  the  very  simplest 
language  I  could  find. 

[63] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

What  the  critics  say  is  that  I  have  uttered 
truisms  in  the  baldest,  least  attractive  diction. 

Here  I  find  myself  to  be  judged,  and  not 
unjustly.  In  the  pursuit  of  truth,  I  said  what  I 
had  to  say  bluntly — and  it  seems  I  had  nothing  but 
commonplaces  to  give  forth.  In  the  search  for 
sincerity  of  style,  I  reduced  every  proposition  to 
its  barest  form  of  language.  And  that  abnegation 
of  rhetoric  has  revealed  the  nudity  of  my  common- 
places. 

I  know  that  I  have  no  wand,  that  I  cannot 
conjure,  that  I  cannot  draw  the  ears  of  men  to 
listen  to  my  words. 

So,  when  I  finally  withdraw  from  further 
appeals  to  the  public,  as  I  mean  to  do,  I  cannot 
pose  as  a  Prospero  who  breaks  his  staff.  I  am  only 
a  somewhat  sturdy,  highly  nervous  varlet  in  the 
sphere  of  art,  who  has  sought  to  wear  the  robe  of 
the  magician — and  being  now  disrobed,  takes  his 
place  quietly  where  God  appointed  him,  and  means 
to  hold  his  tongue  in  future,  since  his  proper 
function  has  been  shown  him. 

Thus  it  is  with  me.  And  I  should  not,  my  dear 
friend,  have  inflicted  so  much  of  myself  upon  you, 
if  I  had  not,  unluckily,  and  in  gross  miscalculation 
of  my  powers,  connected  your  name  with  the  book 
which  proves  my  incompetence. 

Yes,  the  Master*  is  right:  make  as  much  of 
your  life  as  you  can:  use  it  to  the  best  and  noblest 
purpose :  do  not,  when  you  are  old  and  broken  like 
me,  sit  in  the  middle  of  the  ruins  of  Carthage  you 
have  vainly  conquered,  as  I  am  doing  now. 

•Dr.  Jowctt,  Master  of  Balliol. 

[64] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Now  good  bye.  Keep  any  of  my  letters  which 
seem  to  you  worth  keeping.  This  will  make  me 
write  better.  I  keep  a  great  many  of  yours.  You 
will  never  lose  a  warm  corner  in  the  centre  of  the 
heart  of  your  friend 

J.  A.  Symonds. 

P.S.  Live  well.  Live  happy.  Do  not  forget 
me.  I  like  to  think  of  you  in  plenitude  of  life  and 
activity.  I  should  not  be  sorry  for  you  if  you  broke 
your  neck  in  the  hunting  field.  But,  like  the 
Master,  I  want  you  to  make  sure  of  the  young, 
powerful  life  you  have — before  the  inevitable, 
dolorous,  long,  dark  night  draws  nigh. 

Later  on,  a  propos  of  his  translation  of  the 
Autobiography  of  Benvenuto  Cellini,  he  wrote  : 

I  am  so  glad  that  you  like  my  Cellini.  The  book 
has  been  a  success ;  and  I  am  pleased,  though  I  am 
not  interested  in  its  sale.  The  publisher  paid  me 
£210  for  my  work,  which  I  thought  very  good 
wages. 

My  dear  Margot, 

I  wrote  to  you  in  a  great  hurry  yesterday,  and 
with  some  bothering  thoughts  in  the  background  of 
my  head. 

So  I  did  not  tell  you  how  much  I  appreciated 
your  critical  insight  into  the  points  of  my  Introduc- 
tion to  Cellini.  I  do  not  rate  that  piece  of  writing 
quite  as  highly  as  you  do.  But  you  "spotted"  the 
best  thing  in  it — ^the  syllogism  describing  Cellini's 
state  of  mind  as  to  Bourbon's  death. 

[65] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

It  is  true,  I  think,  what  you  say:  that  I  have 
been  getting  more  nervous  and  less  elaborate  in 
style  of  late  years.  This  is  very  natural.  One 
starts  in  life  with  sensuous  susceptibilities  to 
beauty,  with  a  strong  feeling  for  colour  and  for 
melodious  cadence,  and  also  with  an  impulsive 
enthusiastic  way  of  expressing  oneself.  This  causes 
young  work  to  seem  decorated  and  laboured, 
whereas  it  very  often  is  really  spontaneous  and 
hasty,  more  instructive  and  straightforward  than 
the  work  of  middle  life.  I  write  now  with  much 
more  trouble  and  more  slowly,  and  with  much  less 
interest  in  my  subject  than  I  used  to  do.  This  gives 
me  more  command  over  the  vehicle,  language,  than 
I  used  to  have.  I  write  what  pleases  myself  less, 
but  what  probably  strikes  other  people  more. 

This  is  a  long  discourse;  but  not  so  much  about 
myself  as  appears.  I  was  struck  with  your  insight, 
and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  how  I  analyse  the  change 
of  style  which  you  point  out,  and  which  results,  I 
think,  from  colder,  more  laborious,  duller  effort  as 
one  grows  in  years. 

The  artist  ought  never  to  be  commanded  by  his 
subject,  or  his  vehicle  of  expression.  But  until  he 
ceases  to  love  both  with  a  blind  passion,  he  will 
probably  be  so  commanded.  And  then  his  style 
will  appear  decorative,  florid,  mixed,  unequal, 
laboured.  It  is  the  sobriety  of  a  satiated  or  blunted 
enthusiasm  which  makes  the  literary  artist.  He 
ought  to  remember  his  dithyrambic  moods,  but  not 
to  be  subject  to  them  any  longer,  nor  to  yearn  after 
them. 

Do  you  know  that  I  have  only  just  now  found 

[66] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

the  time,  during  my  long  days  and  nights  in  bed 
with  influenza  and  bronchitis,  to  read  Marie  Bash- 
kirtseff?  (Did  ever  name  so  puzzHng  grow  upon 
the  Ygdrasil  of  even  Russian  life?) 

By  this  time  you  must  be  quite  tired  of  hearing 
from  your  friends  how  much  Marie  Bashkirtseff 
reminds  them  of  you. 

I  cannot  help  it.  I  must  say  it  once  again.  I 
am  such  a  fossil  th^  I  permit  myself  the  most 
antediluvian  remarks — if  I  think  they  have  a  grain 
of  truth  in  them.  Of  course,  the  dissimilarities  are 
quite  as  striking  as  the  likenesses.  No  two  leaves 
on  one  linden  are  really  the  same.  But  you  and 
she,  detached  from  the  forest  of  life,  seem  to  me 
like  leaves  plucked  from  the  same  sort  of  tree. 

It  is  a  very  wonderful  book.  If  only  messieurs 
les  romanciers  could  photograph  experience  in  their 
fiction  as  she  has  done  in  some  of  her  pages !  The 
episode  of  Pachay,  short  as  that  is,  is  masterly — 
above  the  reach  of  Balzac;  how  far  above  the 
laborious,  beetle-flight  of  Henry  James!  Above 
even  George  Meredith.  It  is  what  James  would 
give  his  right  hand  to  do  once.  The  episode  of 
Antonelli  is  very  good,  too,  but  not  so  exquisite  as 
the  other. 

There  is  something  pathetic  about  both  "Aso- 
lando"  and  "Demeter,"  those  shrivelled  blossoms 
from  the  stout  old  laurels  touched  with  frost  of 
winter  and  old  age.  But  I  find  little  to  dwell  upon 
in  either  of  them.  Browning  has  more  sap  of  life — 
Tennyson  more  ripe  and  mellow  mastery.  Each 
is  here  in  the  main  reproducing  his  mannerism. 

I  am  writing  to  you,  you  see,  just  as  if  I  had  not 

[67] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

been  silent  for  so  long.  I  take  you  at  your  word, 
and  expect  Margot  to  be  always  the  same  to  a  com- 
rade. 

If  you  were  only  here  I  Keats  said  that  "heard 
melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard  are  sweeter." 
How  false ! 

Yes,  thus  it  is:  somewhere  by  me 
Unheard,  by  me  unfelt,  unknown. 

The  laughing,  rippling  notes  of  thee 
Are  sounding  still ;  while  I  alone 

Am  left  to  sit  and  sigh  and  say — 
Music  unheard  is  sweet  as  they. 

This  is  no  momentary  mood,  and  no  light  bubble- 
breath  of  improvisatory  verse.  It  expresses  what 
I  often  feel  when,  after  a  long  night's  work,  I  light 
my  candle  and  take  a  look  before  I  go  to  bed  at  your 
portrait  in  the  corner  of  my  stove. 

I  have  been  labouring  intensely  at  my  auto- 
biography. It  is  blocked  out,  and  certain  parts  of 
it  are  written  for  good.  But  a  thing  of  this  sort 
ought  to  be  a  master's  final  piece  of  work — and  it  is 
very  exhausting  to  produce. 

Am  Hof, 
Davos  Platz, 
Switzerland, 
Sept  21th,  1891. 
My  dear  Margot, 

I  am  sending  you  back  your  two  typewritten 
records.  They  are  both  very  interesting,  the  one  as 
autobiographical  and  a  study  of  your  family,  the 

[68] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

other  as  a  vivid  and,  I  think,  justly  critical  picture 
of  Gladstone.  It  will  have  a  great  literary  value 
sometime.  I  do  not  quite  feel  with  Jowett,  who 
told  you,  did  he  not?  that  you  had  made  him  under- 
stand Gladstone.  But  I  feel  that  you  have  offered 
an  extremely  powerful  and  brilliant  conception, 
which  is  impressive  and  convincing  because  of  your 
obvious  sincerity  and  breadth  of  view.  The  purely 
biographical  and  literary  value  of  this  bit  of  work 
seems  to  me  very  great,  and  makes  me  keenly  wish 
that  you  would  record  all  your  interesting  expe- 
riences, and  your  first-hand  studies  of  exceptional 
personalities  in  the  same  way. 

Gradually,  by  doing  this,  you  would  accumulate 
material  of  real  importance;  much  better  than 
novels  or  stories,  and  more  valuable  than  the  pas- 
sionate utterances  of  personal  emotion. 

Did  I  ever  show  you  the  record  I  privately 
printed  of  an  evening  passed  by  me  at  Woolner,  the 
sculptor's,  when  Gladstone  met  Tennyson  for  the 
first  time?  If  I  had  been  able  to  enjoy  more  of  such 
incidents,  I  should  also  have  made  documents.  But 
my  opportunities  have  been  limited.  For  future 
historians,  the  illuminative  value  of  such  writing 
will  be  incomparable. 

I  suppose  I  must  send  the  two  pieces  back  to 
Glen.  Which  I  will  do,  together  with  this  letter. 
Let  me  see  what  you  write.  I  think  you  have  a  very 
penetrative  glimpse  into  character,  which  comes 
from  perfect  disengagement  and  sympathy  con- 
trolled by  a  critical  sense.  The  absence  of  egotism 
is  a  great  point. 


[69] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

When  Symonds  died  I  lost  my  best  intellectual 
tutor  as  well  as  one  of  my  dearest  friends.  I  wish  I 
had  taken  his  advice  and  seriously  tried  to  write 
years  ago,  but,  except  for  a  few  magazine  sketches, 
I  have  never  written  a  line  for  publication  in  my 
life.  I  have  only  kept  a  careful  and  accurate  diary,* 
and  here,  in  the  interests  of  my  publishers  and  at 
the  risk  of  being  thought  egotistical,  it  is  not  inap- 
propriate that  I  should  publish  the  following  letters 
in  connection  with  these  diaries  and  my  writing: 

21  Carlyle  Mansions, 

Cheyne  Walk, 
S.  W. 
April  9th,  1915. 
My  dear  Margot  Asquith, 

By  what  felicity  of  divination  were  you  inspired 
to  send  me  a  few  days  ago  that  wonderful  diary 
under  its  lock  and  key? — feeling  so  rightly  certain, 
I  mean,  of  the  peculiar  degree  and  particular  pang 
of  interest  that  I  should  find  in  it?  I  don't  wonder, 
indeed,  at  your  general  presumption  to  that  effect, 
but  the  mood,  the  moment,  and  the  resolution  itself 
conspired  together  for  me,  and  I  have  absorbed 
every  word  of  every  page  with  the  liveliest  apprecia- 
tion, and  I  think  I  may  say  intelligence.  I  have 
read  the  thing  intimately,  and  I  take  off  my  hat  to 
you  as  to  the  very  Balzac  of  diarists.    It  is  full  of 

•Out  of  all  my  diaries  I  have  hardly  been  able  to  quote  fifty  pages, 
for  on  re-reading  them  I  find  tliey  are  not  only  full  of  Cabinet 
secrets  but  jerky,  disjointed  and  dangerously  frank. 

[70] 


OOOFBEY   WEBB:    MEMBEB   OF  THE  SOULS   AND  OODFATHEB 
OF  PBIKCES8  BIBESCO 


(3S2^  f^^J^^' 


SAEL  OF  PKMBBOKB:   MEMBER  OF  THE  SOUU 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

life  and  force  and  colour,  of  a  remarkable  instinct 
for  getting  close  to  your  people  and  things  and  for 
squeezing,  in  the  case  of  the  resolute  portraits  of 
certain  of  your  eminent  characters,  especially  the 
last  drop  of  truth  and  sense  out  of  them — at  least 
as  the  originals  affected  your  singularly  searching 
vision.  Happy,  then,  those  who  had,  of  this  essence, 
the  fewest  secrets  or  crooked  lives  to  yield  up  to 
you — for  the  more  complicated  and  unimaginable 
some  of  them  appear,  the  more  you  seem  to  me  to 
have  caught  and  mastered  them.  Then  I  have 
found  myself  hanging  on  your  impression  in  each 
case  with  the  liveliest  suspense  and  wonder,  so 
thrillingly  does  the  expression  keep  abreast  of  it 
and  really  translate  it.  This  and  your  extraordinary 
fullness  of  opportunity,  make  of  the  record  a  most 
valuable  English  document,  a  rare  revelation  of  the 
human  inwardness  of  political  life  in  this  country, 
and  a  picture  of  manners  and  personal  characters 
as  "creditable"  on  the  whole  (to  the  country)  as  it 
is  frank  and  acute.  The  beauty  is  that  you  write 
with  such  authority,  that  you've  seen  so  much  and 
lived  and  moved  so  much,  and  that  having  so  the 
chance  to  observe  and  feel  and  discriminate  in  the 
light  of  so  much  high  pressure,  you  haven't  been 
in  the  least  afraid,  but  have  faced  and  assimilated 
and  represented  for  all  you're  worth. 

I  have  lived,  you  see,  wholly  out  of  the  inner 
circle  of  political  life,  and  yet  more  or  less  in  won- 
dering sight,  for  years,  of  many  of  its  outer  appear- 
ances, and  in  superficial  contact — though  this, 
indeed,  pretty  anciently  now — with  various  actors 
and  figures,  standing  off  from  them  on  my  quite 

[71] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

different  ground  and  neither  able  nor  wanting  to  be 
of  the  craft  of  mystery  (preferring,  so  to  speak, 
my  own  poor,  private  ones,  such  as  they  have  been) 
and  yet  with  all  sorts  of  unsatisfied  curiosities  and 
yearnings  and  imaginings  in  your  general,  your 
fearful  direction.  Well,  you  take  me  by  the  hand 
and  lead  me  back  and  in,  and  still  in,  and  make 
things  beautifully  up  to  me — all  my  losses  and 
misses  and  exclusions  and  privation — and  do  it  by 
having  taken  all  the  right  notes,  apprehended  all  the 
right  values  and  enjoyed  all  the  right  reactions — 
meaning  by  the  right  ones,  those  that  must  have 
ministered  most  to  interest  and  emotion ;  those  that 
I  dimly  made  you  out  as  getting  while  I  flattened 
my  nose  against  the  shop  window  and  you  were 
there  within,  eating  the  tarts,  shall  I  say,  or  hand- 
ing them  over  the  counter?  It's  to-day  as  if  you 
had  taken  all  the  trouble  for  me  and  left  me  at  last 
all  the  unearned  increment  or  fine  psychological 
gain!  I  have  hovered  about  two  or  three  of  your 
distinguished  persons  a  bit  longingly  (in  the  past) ; 
but  you  open  up  the  abysses,  or  such  like,  that  I 
really  missed,  and  the  torch  you  play  over  them  is 
often  luridly  illuminating.  I  find  my  experience, 
therefore,  the  experience  of  simply  reading  you 
(you  having  had  all  t'other)  veritably  romantic. 
But  I  want  so  to  go  on  that  I  deplore  your  apparent 
arrest — Saint  Simon  is  in  forty  volumes — why 
should  Margot  be  put  in  one?  Your  own  portrait 
is  an  extraordinarily  patient  and  detached  and 
touch-upon-touch  thing;  but  the  book  itself  really 
constitutes  an  image  of  you  by  its  strength  of  feel- 
ing and  living  individual  tone.    An  admirable  por- 

[72] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

trait  of  a  lady,  with  no  end  of  finish  and  style,  is 
thereby  projected,  and  if  I  don't  stop  now,  I  shall 
be  calling  it  a  regular  masterpiece.  Please  believe 
how  truly  touched  I  am  by  your  confidence  in  your 
faithful,  though  old,  friend, 

Henry  James. 

My  dear  and  distinguished  friend  Lord  Morley 
sent  me  the  following  letter  of  the  15th  of  Septem- 
ber, 1919,  and  it  was  in  consequence  of  this  letter 
that,  two  months  afterwards,  on  November  the 
11th,  1919, 1  began  to  write  this  book: 

Flowermead, 
Ppinces  Road, 

Wimbledon  Park,  S.W., 

September  15th,  1919. 
Dear  Mrs.  Asquith, 

Your  kindest  of  letters  gave  me  uncommon 
pleasure,  both  personal  and  literary.  Personal, 
because  I  like  to  know  that  we  are  still  affectionate 
friends,  as  we  have  been  for  such  long,  important 
and  trying  years.  Literary — because  it  is  a  brilliant 
example  of  that  character-writing  in  which  the 
French  so  indisputably  beat  us.  If  you  like,  you 
can  be  as  keen  and  brilliant  and  penetrating  as 
Madame  de  Sevigne  or  the  best  of  them,  and  if  I 
were  a  publisher,  I  would  tempt  you  by  high  emolu- 
ments and  certainty  of  fame.  You  ask  me  to  leave 
you  a  book  when  I  depart  this  life.  If  I  were  your 
generous  well-wisher,  I  should  not  leave,  but  give 
you,  my  rather  full  collection  of  French  Memoirs 

173] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

now  while  I  am  alive.  Well,  I  am  in  very  truth 
your  best  well-wisher,  but  incline  to  bequeath  my 
modern  library  to  a  public  body  of  female  ladies,  if 
you  pardon  that  odd  and  inelegant  expression. 

I  have  nothing  good  or  interesting  to  tell  you  of 
myself.    My  strength  will  stand  no  tax  upon  it. 

The  bequest  from  my  old  friend*  in  America  was 
a  pleasant  refresher,  and  it  touched  me,  considering 
how  different  we  were  in  training,  character,  tastes, 
temperament.  I  was  first  introduced  to  him  with 
commendation  by  Mr.  Arnold — a  curious  trio, 
wasn't  it?  He  thought,  and  was  proud  of  it,  that 
he,  A.  C,  introduced  M.  A.  and  me  to  the  United 
States. 

I  watch  events  and  men  here  pretty  vigilantly, 
with  what  good  and  hopeful  spirits  you  can  imagine. 
When  you  return  do  pay  me  a  visit.  There's  no- 
body who  would  be  such  a  tonic  to  an  octogenarian. 

Always,  always,  your  affectionate  friend, 

J.  M. 

When  I  had  been  wrestling  with  this  auto- 
biography for  two  months  I  wrote  and  told  John 
Morley  of  my  venture,  and  this  is  his  reply: 

Flowermead, 
Princes  Road, 
Wimbledon  Park, 
S.W., 
(J^.,  1920). 
Dear  Mrs.  Asquith, 

A  bird  in  the  air  had  already  whispered  the 

•Andrew  Carnegie. 

[74] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

matter  of  your  literary  venture,  and  I  neither  had 
nor  have  any  doubt  at  all  that  the  publisher  knew 
very  well  what  he  was  about.  The  book  will  be 
bright  in  real  knowledge  of  the  world ;  rich  in  points 
of  life;  sympathetic  with  human  nature,  which  in 
strength  and  weakness  is  never  petty  or  small. 

Be  sure  to  trust  yourself;  and  don't  worry  about 
critics.  You  need  no  words  to  tell  you  how  warmly 
I  am  interested  in  your  great  design.    Persevere, 

How  kind  to  bid  me  to  your  royal*  meal.  But  I 
am  too  old  for  company  that  would  be  so  new,  so 
don't  take  it  amiss,  my  best  of  friends,  if  I  ask  to 
be  bidden  when  I  should  see  more  of  you.  You 
don't  know  how  dull  a  man,  once  lively,  can  degen- 
erate into  being. 

Your  always  affectionate  and  grateful 

J.  MORLEY. 


To  return  to  my  triumphant  youth:  I  will  end 
this  chapter  with  a  note  which  my  friend,  Lady 
Frances  Balfour — one  of  the  few  women  of  out- 
standing intellect  that  I  have  known — sent  me  from 
her  father,  the  late  Duke  of  Argyll,  the  wonderful 
orator  of  whom  it  was  said  that  he  was  like  a  cannon 
being  fired  off  by  a  canary. 

Frances  asked  me  to  meet  him  at  a  small  dinner 
and  placed  me  next  to  him.    In  the  course  of  our 

*I  invited  him  to  meet  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

[75] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Conversation,  he  quoted  these  words  that  he  had 
heard  in  a  sermon  preached  by  Dr.  Caird: 

"Oh!  for  the  time  when  Church  and  State  shall 
no  longer  be  the  watchword  of  opposing  hosts,  when 
every  man  shall  be  a  priest  and  every  priest  shall  be 
a  king,  as  priest  clothed  with  righteousness,  as  king 
with  power!" 

I  made  him  write  them  down  for  me,  and  we  dis- 
cussed religion,  preachers  and  politics  at  some 
length  before  I  went  home. 

The  next  morning  he  wrote  to  his  daughter : 

Akgyll  Lodge, 
Kensington. 
Dear  Frances, 

How  dare  you  ask  me  to  meet  a  syren. 

Your  affectionate, 

A. 


[76] 


CHAPTER  II 

CHARACTER  SKETCH  OF  MARGOT — PLANS  TO  START  A 
MAGAZINE MEETS        MASTER        OF        BALLIOL; 

jowett's  orthodoxy;  his  interest  in  and 
influence  over  margot rose  in  "robert 

ELSMERE"  identified  as  MARGOT — JOWETT's 
OPINION  OF  NEWMAN — JOWETT  ADVISES  MAR- 
GOT TO  MARRY — Huxley's  blasphemy 

1  SHALL  open  this  chapter  of  my  autobiog- 
raphy with  a  character-sketch  of  myself,  writ- 
ten at  Glen  in  one  of  our  pencil-games  in  January, 
1888.  Nearly  every  one  in  the  room  guessed  that  I 
was  the  subject,  but  opinions  differed  as  to  the  au- 
thorship. Some  thought  that  our  dear  and  clever 
friend,  Godfrey  Webb,  had  written  it  as  a  sort  of 
joke. 

"In  appearance  she  was  small,  with  rapid,  nervous 
movements ;  energetic,  never  wholly  ungraceful,  but 
inclined  to  be  restless.  Her  face  did  not  betray  the 
intelligence  she  possessed,  as  her  eyes,  though  clear 
and  well-shaped,  were  too  close  together.  Her 
hawky  nose  was  bent  over  a  short  upper  lip  and 

[77] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

meaningless  mouth.  The  chin  showed  more  definite 
character  than  her  other  features,  being  large,  bony 
and  prominent,  and  she  had  curly,  pretty  hair, 
growing  well  on  a  finely-cut  forehead;  the  ensemble 
healthy  and  mobile;  in  manner  easy,  unself-con- 
scious,  emphatic,  inclined  to  be  noisy  from  over- 
keenness  and  perfectly  self-possessed.  Conversa- 
tion graphic  and  exaggerated,  eager  and  concen- 
trated, with  a  natural  gift  of  expression.  Her 
honesty  more  a  peculiarity  than  a  virtue.  Decision 
more  of  instinct  than  of  reason ;  a  disengaged  mind 
wholly  unfettered  by  prejudice.  Very  observant 
and  a  fine  judge  of  her  fellow-creatures,  finding  all 
interesting  and  worthy  of  her  speculation.  She  was 
not  easily  depressed  by  antagonistic  circumstances 
or  social  situations  hostile  to  herself — on  the  con- 
trary, her  spirit  rose  in  all  losing  games.  She  was 
assisted  in  this  by  having  no  personal  vanity,  the 
highest  vitality  and  great  self-confidence.  She  was 
self-indulgent,  though  not  selfish,  and  had  not 
enough  self-control  for  her  passion  and  impetu- 
osity; it  was  owing  more  to  dash  and  grit  than  to 
any  foresight  that  she  kept  out  of  difficulties.  She 
distrusted  the  dried-up  advice  of  many  people,  who 
prefer  coining  evil  to  publishing  good.  She  was 
[78] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

lacking  in  awe,  and  no  respecter  of  persons ;  loving 
old  people  because  she  never  felt  they  were  old. 
Warm-hearted,  and  with  much  power  of  devotion, 
thinking  no  trouble  too  great  to  take  for  those  you 
love,  and  agreeing  with  Dr.  Johnson  that  friend- 
ships should  be  kept  in  constant  repair.  Too  many 
interests  and  too  many-sided.  Fond  of  people,  ani- 
mals, books,  sport,  music,  art  and  exercise.  More 
Bohemian  than  exclusive  and  with  a  certain  power 
of  investing  acquaintances  and  even  bores  with  in- 
terest. Passionate  love  of  Nature.  Lacking  in 
devotional,  practising  religion ;  otherwise  sensitively 
religious.  Sensible;  not  easily  influenced  for  good 
or  evil.  Jealous,  keen  and  faithful  in  affection. 
Great  want  of  plodding  perseverance,  doing  many 
things  with  promise  and  nothing  well.  A  fine  ear 
for  music:  no  execution;  a  good  eye  for  drawing: 
no  knowledge  or  practice  in  perspective ;  more  crit- 
ical than  constructive.  Very  cool  and  decided  with 
horses.  Good  nerve,  good  whip  and  a  fine  rider. 
Intellectually  self-made,  ambitious,  independent 
and  self-willed.  Fond  of  admiration  and  love  from 
both  men  and  women,  and  able  to  give  it." 

I  sent  this  to  Dr.  Jowett  with  another  character- 

[79] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

sketch  of  Gladstone.    After  reading  them,  he  wrote 
me  this  letter: 

Ball.  Coll. 
Oct.  23rd,  1890. 
My  dear  Mabgot, 

I  return  the  book*  which  you  entrusted  to  me: 
I  was  very  much  interested  by  it.  The  sketch  of 
Gladstone  is  excellent.  Pray  write  some  more  of 
it  some  time:  I  understand  him  better  after  read- 
ing it. 

The  young  lady's  portrait  of  herself  is  quite 
truthful  and  not  at  all  flattered :  shall  I  add  a  trait 
or  two?  "She  is  very  sincere  and  extremely  clever; 
indeed,  her  cleverness  almost  amounts  to  genius. 
She  might  be  a  distinguished  authoress  if  she  would 
— but  she  wastes  her  time  and  her  gifts  scampering 
about  the  world  and  going  from  one  country  house 
to  another  in  a  manner  not  pleasant  to  look  back 
upon  and  still  less  pleasant  to  think  of  twenty  years 
hence,  when  youth  will  have  made  itself  wings  and 
fled  away." 

If  you  know  her,  will  you  tell  her  with  my  love, 
that  I  do  not  like  to  oflTer  her  any  more  advice,  but 
I  wish  that  she  would  take  counsel  with  herself. 
She  has  made  a  great  position,  though  slippery  and 
dangerous:  will  she  not  add  to  this  a  noble  and 
simple  life  which  can  alone  give  a  true  value  to  it? 
The  higher  we  rise,  the  more  self-discipline,  self- 
control  and  economy  is  required  of  us.  It  is  a  hard 
thing  to  be  in  the  world  but  not  of  it;  to  be  out- 
wardly much  like  other  people  and  yet  to  be  cher- 

•A  commonplace  book  with  a  few  written  sketches  of  people  in  It 

[80] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

ishing  an  ideal  which  extends  over  the  whole  of  life 
and  beyond;  to  have  a  natural  love  for  every  one, 
especially  for  the  poor ;  to  get  rid,  not  of  wit  or  good 
humour,  but  of  frivolity  and  excitement;  to  live 
"selfless"  according  to  the  Will  of  God  and  not 
after  the  fashions  and  opinions  of  men  and  women. 

Stimulated  by  this  and  the  encouragement  of 
Lionel  Tennyson — a  new  friend — I  was  anxious  to 
start  a  newspaper.  When  I  was  a  little  girl  at 
Glen,  there  had  been  a  schoolroom  paper,  called 
''The  Glen  Gossip:  The  Tennant  Tatler,  or  The 
Peeblesshire  Prattler"  I  believe  my  brother  Eddy 
wrote  the  wittiest  verses  in  it ;  but  I  was  too  young 
to  remember  much  about  it  or  to  contribute  any- 
thing. I  had  many  distinguished  friends  by  that 
time,  all  of  whom  had  promised  to  write  for  me. 
The  idea  was  four  or  five  numbers  to  be  illustrated 
by  my  sister  Lucy  Graham  Smith,  and  a  brilliant 
letter-press,  but,  in  spite  of  much  discussion  among 
ourselves,  it  came  to  nothing.  I  have  always  re- 
gretted this,  as,  looking  at  the  names  of  the  contrib- 
utors and  the  programme  for  the  first  number,  I 
think  it  might  have  been  a  success.  The  title  of  the 
paper  gave  us  infinite  trouble.  We  ended  by  adopt- 
ing a  suggestion  of  my  own,  and  our  new  venture 
was  to  have  been  called  "To-morrow f'    This  is  the 

[81] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 


list  of  people  who  promised  to  write  for  me,  and  the 
names  they  suggested  for  the  paper: 

Lord  and  Lady  Pembroke 


Mr.  A.  Lyttelton  -  - 

Mr.    Knowles      -  -  - 

Mr.  A.  J.  Balfour  -  - 

Mr.  Oscar  WUde  -  - 

Lady  Ribblesdale  -  - 

Margot    Tennant 

Mr.     Webb         -  -  - 

Mrs.    Horner      -  -  - 
Miss  Mary  Leslie 

Sir   A.    West      -  -  - 

Mr.  J.  A.  Symonds  - 


Sympathetic  Ink, 
The  Idle  Pen. 
The  Mail. 
The  Kite. 
Blue  Ink. 

The  hen. 
The  Cluck. 

The  Butterfly, 

The  New  Eve. 
Anonymous. 
Mrs.  Grundy. 

The  Life  Improver. 
Mrs.  Omndy's  Daughter, 

Jame. 
Psyche. 
The  Mask, 

The  Mangle. 

Eve. 

Dolly   Varden, 

To-morrow. 

The  Petticoat. 
She. 

The  Sphinx. 
Eglantine. 
Blue  Veil. 
Pinafore. 

The  Spinnet. 

The  Spinnmg-Wheel 

Muses  and  Orates. 
Causeries  en  peignoir. 
Woman's  Wit  and  Humour. 


The  contributors  on  our  staff  were  to  have  been 
Laurence  OHphant,  J.  K.  Stephen,  Mr.  Wilfrid 
[82] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Blunt,  Hon.  George  Curzon,  George  Wyndham, 
Godfrey  Webb,  Doll  Liddell,  Harry  Cust,  Mr. 
Knowles  (the  editor  of  the  Nineteenth  Century), 
the  Hon.  A.  Lyttelton,  Mr.  A.  J.  Balfour,  Oscar 
Wilde,  Lord  and  Lady  Ribblesdale,  Mrs.  (now 
Lady)  Horner,  Sir  Algernon  West,  Lady  Frances 
Balfour,  Lord  and  Lady  Pembroke,  Miss  Betty 
Ponsonby  (tKe  present  Mrs.  Montgomery),  John 
Addington  Symonds,  Dr.  Jowett  (the  Master  of 
Balliol),  M.  Coquelin,  Sir  Henry  Irving,  Miss 
Ellen  Terry,  Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones,  Mr. 
George  Russell,  Mrs.  Singleton  (alias  Violet  Fane, 
afterwards  Lady  Currie),  Lady  de  Grey,  Lady 
Constance  Leslie  and  the  Hon.  Lionel  Tennyson. 
Our  programme  for  the  first  number  was  to  have 
been  the  following: 

TO-MORKOW 

Leader  Persons  and  Politics     Margot  Tennant. 

The  Social  Zodiac  Rise  and   fall  of 

'    Professional  Beauties   Lady  de  Grey. 
Occasional   Articles        The  Green-eyed  Violet    Fane    (novp- 

Monster  de-plume  of 

Mrs.      Sihgleton). 
Occasional   Notes  Foreign  and  Colonial 

Gossip  Harry    Cust. 

Men  and   Women  Character   Sketch  Margot   Tennant. 

Story  ----____-  Oscar  Wilde. 

Poem         ---         ......  Godfrey  Webb. 

Letters    to   Men    -         --»__-  George   Wyndham. 
Books  Reviewed    -        «-----  John  Addington 

Symonds. 
Conversations         -        •--•«-  Miss    Ponsonby. 

[83] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

This  is  what  I  wrote  for  the  first  number: 
"Persons  and  Politics 

"In  Polities  the  common  opinion  is  that  measures 
are  the  important  thing,  and  that  men  are  merely 
the  instruments  which  each  generation  produces, 
equal  or  unequal  to  the  accomplishment  of  them. 

"This  is  a  mistake.  The  majority  of  mankind 
desire  nothing  so  much  as  to  be  led.  They  have  no 
opinions  of  their  own,  and,  half  from  caution,  half 
from  laziness,  are  willing  to  leave  the  responsibility 
to  any  stronger  person.  It  is  the  personality  of  the 
man  which  makes  the  masses  turn  to  him,  gives  in- 
fluence to  his  ideas  while  he  lives,  and  causes  him  to 
be  remembered  after  both  he  and  his  work  are  dead. 
From  the  time  of  Moses  downwards,  history 
abounds  in  such  examples.  In  the  present  century 
Napoleon  and  Gladstone  have  perhaps  impressed 
themselves  most  dramatically  on  the  public  mind, 
and,  in  a  lesser  degree,  Disraeli  and  Parnell.  The 
greatest  men  in  the  past  have  been  superior  to  their 
age  and  associated  themselves  with  its  glory  only  in 
so  far  as  they  have  contributed  to  it.  But  in  these 
days  the  movement  of  time  is  too  rapid  for  us  to 
recognise  such  a  man:  under  modern  conditions  he 
[84] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

must  be  superior,  not  so  much  to  his  age,  as  to  the 
men  of  his  age,  and  absorb  what  glory  he  can  in  his 
own  personality. 

"The  Code  Napoleon  remains,  but,  beyond  this, 
hardly  one  of  Napoleon's  great  achievements  sur- 
vives as  a  living  embodiment  of  his  genius.  Never 
was  so  vast  a  fabric  so  quickly  created  and  so 
quickly  dissolved.  The  moment  the  individual  was 
caught  and  removed,  the  bewitched  French  world 
leturned  to  itself;  and  the  fame  of  the  army  and  the 
prestige  of  France  were  as  mere  echoes  of  retreat- 
ing thunder.  Dead  as  are  the  results  of  Bona- 
parte's measures  and  actions,  no  one  would  question 
the  permanent  vitality  of  his  name.  It  conjures  up 
an  image  in  the  dullest  brain;  and  among  all  his- 
torical celebrities  he  is  the  one  whom  most  of  us 
would  like  to  have  met. 

"The  Home  Rule  question,  which  has  long  dis- 
torted the  public  judgment  and  looms  large  at  the 
present  political  moment,  admirably  illustrates  the 
power  of  personality.  Its  importance  has  been 
exaggerated;  the  grant  of  Home  Rule  will  not 
save  Ireland;  its  refusal  will  not  shame  England. 
Its  swollen  proportions  are  wholly  due  to  the  pas- 
sionate  personal   feehngs   which   Mr.    Gladstone 

[85] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

alone  among  living  statemen  inspires.  *He  is  so 
powerful  that  his  thoughts  are  nearly  acts,'  as 
some  one  has  written  of  him;  and  at  an  age  when 
most  men  would  be  wheeled  into  the  chimney- 
corner,  he  is  at  the  head  of  a  precarious  majority 
and  still  retains  enough  force  to  compel  its  undi- 
vided support. 

"Mr.  Chamberlain's  power  springs  from  the  con- 
centration of  a  nature  which  is  singularly  free  from 
complexity.  The  range  of  his  mind  is  narrow, 
but  up  to  its  horizon  the  whole  is  illuminated  by  the 
same  strong  and  rather  garish  light.  The  absolute- 
ness of  his  convictions  is  never  shaded  or  softened 
by  any  play  of  imagination  or  sjmipathetic  insight. 
It  is  not  in  virtue  of  any  exceptionally  fine  or 
attractive  quality,  either  of  intellect  or  of  char- 
acter, that  Mr.  Chamberlain  liafj  become  a  dominant 
figure.  Strength  of  will,  directness  of  purpose,  an 
aggressive  and  contagious  belief  in  himself:  these — 
which  are  the  notes  of  a  compelling  individuality — 
made  him  what  he  is.  On  the  other  hand,  culture, 
intellectual  versatility,  sound  and  practised  judg- 
ment, which  was  tried  and  rarely  found  wanting  in 
delicate  and  even  dangerous  situations,  did  not  suf- 
fice in  the  case  of  Mr.  Matthews  to  redeem  the 
[86] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

shortcomings  of  a  diffuse  and  ineffective  person- 
ality. 

"In  a  different  way,  Mr.  Goschen's  remarkable 
endowments  are  neutralised  by  the  same  limitations. 
He  has  infinite  ingenuity,  but  he  can  neither  initiate 
nor  propel;  an  intrepid  debater  in  council  and  in 
action,  he  is  prey  to  an  invincible  indecision. 

"If  the  fortunes  of  a  Government  depend  not  so 
much  on  its  measures  as  upon  the  character  of  the 
men  who  compose  it,  the  new  Ministry  starts  with 
every  chance  of  success. 

"Lord  Rosebery  is  one  of  our  few  statesmen 
whose  individuality  is  distinctly  recognised  by  the 
public,  both  at  home  and  abroad. 

"Lord  Spencer,  without  a  trace  of  genius,  is  a 
person.  Sir  W.  Harcourt,  the  most  brilliant  and 
witty  of  them  all,  is,  perhaps,  not  more  than  a  life- 
like imitation  of  a  strong  man.  Mr.  John  Morley 
has  conviction,  courage  and  tenacity;  but  an  over- 
delicacy  of  nervous  organisation  and  a  certain  lack 
of  animal  spirits  disqualify  him  from  being  a  leader 
of  men. 

"It  is  premature  to  criticise  the  new  members  of 
the  Cabinet,  of  whom  the  most  conspicuous  is  Mr. 
Asquith.      Beyond    and    above   his    abilities    and 

[87] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

eloquence,  there  is  in  him  much  quiet  force  and  a 
certain  vein  of  scornful  austerity.  His  supreme 
contempt  for  the  superficial  and  his  independence 
of  mind  might  take  him  far. 

"The  future  will  not  disclose  its  secrets,  but  per- 
sonality still  governs  the  world,  and  the  avenue  is 
open  to  the  man,  wherever  he  may  be  found,  who 
can  control  and  will  not  be  controlled  by  fashions  of 
opinion  and  the  shifting  movement  of  causes  and 


cries." 


My  article  is  not  at  all  good,  but  I  put  it  in  this 
autobiography  merely  as  a  political  prophecy. 
•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

To  be  imitative  and  uninfluenceable — although  a 
common  combination — is  a  bad  one.  I  am  not 
tempted  to  be  imitative  except,  I  hope,  in  the  better 
sense  of  the  word,  but  I  regret  to  own  that  I  am  not 
very  influenceable  either. 

Jowett  (the  Master  of  Balliol  in  1888-89),  my 
doctor,  Sir  John  Williams  (of  Aberystwyth),  my 
son  Anthony  and  old  Lady  Wemyss  (the  mother  of 
the  present  Earl)  had  more  influence  over  me  than 
any  other  individuals  in  the  world. 

The  late  Countess  of  Wemyss,  who  died  in  1896, 
[88] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

was  a  great  character  without  being  a  character- 
part.  She  told  me  that  she  frightened  people,  which 
distressed  her.  As  I  am  not  easily  frightened,  I 
was  puzzled  by  this.  After  thinking  it  over,  I  was 
convinced  that  it  was  because  she  had  a  hard  nut 
to  crack  within  herself:  she  possessed  a  jealous, 
passionate,  youthful  temperament,  a  formidable 
standard  of  right  and  wrong,  a  distinguished  and 
rather  stern  dccueil,  a  low,  slow  utterance  and  terri- 
fying sincerity.  She  was  the  kind  of  person  I  had 
dreamt  of  meeting  and  never  knew  that  God  had 
made.  She  once  told  me  that  I  was  the  best  friend 
man,  woman  or  child  could  ever  have.  After  this 
wonderful  compliment,  we  formed  a  deep  attach- 
ment, which  lasted  until  her  death.  She  had  a 
unique  power  of  devotion  and  fundamental  humble- 
ness.   I  kept  every  letter  she  ever  wrote  to  me. 

When  we  left  Downing  Street  in  ten  days — after 
being  there  for  over  nine  years — and  had  not  a  roof 
to  cover  our  heads,  our  new  friends  came  to  the 
rescue.  I  must  add  that  many  of  the  old  ones  had 
no  room  for  us  and  some  were  living  in  the  country. 
Lady  Crewe* — ^young  enough  to  be  my  daughter, 
and  a  woman  of  rare  honesty  of  purpose  and  clear- 

•The  Marchioness  of  Crewe. 

[89] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

ness  of  head — ^tooK  our  son  Cyril  in  at  Crewe 
House.  Lady  Granard*  put  up  my  husband ;  Mrs. 
Cavendish-Bentinck — Lady  Granard's  aunt  and 
one  of  God's  own — befriended  my  daughter  Ehza- 
beth;  Mrs.  George  Keppelfalways  large-hearted 
and  kind — gave  me  a  whole  floor  of  her  house  in 
Grosvenor  Street  to  live  in,  for  as  many  months 
as  I  liked,  and  Mrs.  McKennaJ  took  in  my  son 
Anthony.  No  one  has  had  such  wonderful  friends 
as  I  have  had,  but  no  one  has  suffered  more  at  dis- 
covering the  instability  of  human  beings  and  how 
little  power  to  love  many  people  possess. 

Few  men  and  women  surrender  their  wills ;  and 
it  is  considered  lowering  to  their  dignity  to  own 
that  they  are  in  the  wrong.  I  never  get  over  my 
amazement  at  this  kind  of  self-value,  it  passes  all 
my  comprehension.  It  is  vanity  and  this  funda- 
mental lack  of  humbleness  that  is  the  bed-rock  of 
nearly  every  quarrel. 

It  was  through  my  beloved  Lady  Wemyss  that  I 
first  met  the  Master  of  Balliol.  One  evening  in 
1888,  after  the  men  had  come  in  from  shooting,  we 

♦The  Countess  of  Granard. 
fThc  Hon.  Mrs.  KeppeL 

iMrs.  McKenna,  the  daughter  of  Lady  Jekyll,  and  niece  of  Lady 
Homer. 

[90] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

were  having  tea  in  the  large  marble  hall  at  Gos- 
ford.*  I  generally  wore  an  accordion  skirt  at  tea, 
as  Lord  Wemyss  liked  me  to  dance  to  him.  Some 
one  was  playing  the  piano  and  I  was  improvising 
in  and  out  of  the  chairs,  when,  in  the  act  of  making 
a  final  curtsey,  I  caught  my  foot  in  my  skirt  and 
fell  at  the  feet  of  an  old  clergyman  seated  in  the 
window.  As  I  got  up,  a  loud  "Damn!"  resounded 
through  the  room.  Recovering  my  presence  of 
mind,  I  said,  looking  up : 

"You  are  a  clergyman  and  I  am  afraid  I  have 
shocked  you!" 

"Not  at  all,"  he  replied.  "I  hope  you  will  go  on; 
I  like  your  dancing  extremely." 

I  provoked  much  amusement  by  asking  the 
family  afterwards  if  the  parson  whose  presence  I 
had  failed  to  notice  was  their  minister  at  Aberlady. 
I  then  learnt  that  he  was  the  famous  Dr.  Benjamin 
Jowett,  Master  of  Balliol. 

Before  telling  how  my  friendship  with  the  Master 
developed,  I  shall  go  back  to  the  events  in  Oxford 
which  gave  him  his  insight  into  human  beings  and 
caused  him  much  quiet  suffering. 

*Gosford  is  the  Earl  of  Wemyss*  country  place  and  is  situated  be- 
tween Edinburgh  and  North  Berwick. 

[91] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

In  1852  the  death  of  Dr.  Jenkyns  caused  the 
Mastership  at  Balliol  to  become  vacant.  Jowett's 
fame  as  a  tutor  was  great,  but  with  it  there  had 
spread  a  suspicion  of  "rationalism."  Persons  whis- 
pered that  the  great  tutor  was  tainted  with  German 
views.  This  reacted  unduly  upon  his  colleagues; 
and,  when  the  election  came,  he  was  rejected  by  a 
single  vote.  His  disappointment  was  deep,  but  he 
threw  himself  more  than  ever  into  his  work.  He 
told  me  that  a  favourite  passage  of  his  in  Marcus 
Aurelius — "Be  always  doing  something  serviceable 
to  mankind  and  let  this  constant  generosity  be  your 
only  pleasure,  not  forgetting  a  due  regard  to  God" 
— had  been  of  great  help  to  him  at  that  time. 

The  lectures  which  his  pupils  cared  most  about 
were  those  on  Plato  and  St.  Paul;  both  as  tutor 
and  examiner  he  may  be  said  to  have  stimulated  the 
study  of  Plato  in  Oxford :  he  made  it  a  rival  to  that 
of  Aristotle. 

"Aristotle  is  dead,"  he  would  say,  "but  Plato  is 
alive." 

Hitherto  he  had  published  little — an  anonymous 

essay  on  Pascal  and  a  few  literary  articles — but 

under  the  stimulus  of  disappointment  he  finished 

his  share  of  the  edition  of  St.  Paul's  Epistles,  which 

[92] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

had  been  undertaken  in  conjunction  with  Arthur 
Stanley.  Both  produced  their  books  in  1855;  but 
while  Stanley's  Corinthians  evoked  languid  in- 
terest, Jowett's  Galatians,  Thessalonians  and 
Romans  provoked  a  clamour  among  his  friends  and 
enemies.  About  that  time  he  was  appointed  to  the 
Oxford  Greek  Chair,  which  pleased  him  much ;  but 
his  delight  was  rather  dashed  by  a  hostile  article  in 
the  Quarterly  Review,  abusing  him  and  his  religious 
writings.  The  Vice-Chancellor,  Dr.  Cotton,  re- 
quired from  him  a  fresh  signature  of  the  Articles 
of  the  Church  of  England.  At  the  interview,  when 
addressed  by  two  men — one  pompously  explaining 
that  it  was  a  necessary  act  if  he  was  to  retain  his 
cloth  and  the  other  apologising  for  inflicting  a 
humiliation  upon  him — he  merely  said: 

"Give  me  the  pen." 

His  essay  on  The  Interpretation  of  Scripture, 
which  came  out  in  1860  in  the  famous  volume, 
Essays  and  Reviews,  increased  the  cry  of  heter- 
odoxy against  him;  and  the  Canons  of  Christ 
Church,  including  Dr.  Pusey,  persisted  in  withhold- 
ing from  him  an  extra  salary,  without  which  the 
endowment  of  the  Greek  Chair  was  worth  £40. 
This  scandal  was  not  removed  till  1864,  after  he 

[93] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

had  been  excluded  from  the  university  pulpit.  He 
continued  working  hard  at  his  translation  of  the 
whole  of  Plato;  he  had  already  published  notes  on 
the  Republic  and  analyses  of  the  dialogue.  This 
took  up  all  his  time  till  1878,  when  he  became  Mas- 
ter of  Balliol. 

The  worst  of  the  Essays  and  Reviews  contro- 
versy was  that  it  did  an  injustice  to  Jowett's  repu- 
tation. For  years  people  thought  that  he  was  a 
great  heresiarch  presiding  over  a  college  of  infidels 
and  heretics.  His  impeached  article  on  The 
Interpretation  of  Scripture  might  to-day  be  pub- 
lished by  any  clergyman.  His  crime  lay  in  saying 
that  the  Bible  should  be  criticised  like  other  books. 

In  his  introduction  to  the  Repvhlic  of  Plato  he 
expresses  the  same  thought: 

A  Greek  in  the  age  of  Plato  attached  no  impor- 
tance to  the  question  whether  his  religion  was  an 
historical  fact.  .  .  .  Men  only  began  to  suspect 
that  the  narratives  of  Homer  and  Hesiod  were 
fictions  when  they  recognised  them  to  be  immoral. 
And  so  in  all  religions:  the  consideration  of  their 
morality  comes  first,  afterwards  the  truth  of  the 
documents  in  which  they  are  recorded,  or  of  the 
events,  natural  or  supernatural,  which  are  told  of 
them.  But  in  modern  times,  and  in  Protestant 
countries  perhaps  more  than  Catholic,  we  have  been 

[94] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

too  much  inclined  to  identify  the  historical  with 
the  moral;  and  some  have  refused  to  believe  in  re- 
ligion at  all,  unless  a  superhuman  accuracy  was  dis- 
cerned in  every  part  of  the  record.  The  facts  of  an 
ancient  or  religious  history  are  amongst  the  most 
important  of  all  facts,  but  they  are  frequently  un- 
certain, and  we  only  learn  the  true  lesson  which  is 
to  be  gathered  from  them  when  we  place  ourselves 
above  them. 

Some  one  writes  in  the  Literary  Supplement  of 
the  Times  to-day,  11th  December,  1919: 

"An  almost  animal  indifference  to  mental  refine- 
ment characterises  our  great  public." 

This  is  quite  true,  and  presumably  was  true  in 
Jowett's  day,  not  only  of  the  great  public  but  of  the 
Established  Church. 

Catherine  Marsh,  the  author  of  The  Life  of 
Hedley  Vicars,  wrote  to  Jowett  assuring  him  of 
her  complete  belief  in  the  sincerity  of  his  religious 
views  and  expressing  indignation  that  he  should 
have  had  to  sign  the  thirty-nine  Articles  again.  I 
give  his  reply.  The  postscript  is  characteristic  of 
his  kindliness,  gentle  temper  and  practical  wisdom. 

March  16th,  1864. 
Dear  Madam, 

Accept  my  best  thanks  for  your  kind  letter,  and 
for  the  books  you  have  been  so  good  as  to  send  me. 

[95] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  certainly  hope  (though  conscious  of  how  little 
I  am  able  to  do)  that  I  shall  devote  my  life  to  the 
service  of  God,  and  of  the  youths  of  Oxford,  whom 
I  desire  to  regard  as  a  trust  which  He  has  given  me. 
But  I  am  afraid,  if  I  may  judge  from  the  tenour  of 
your  letter,  that  I  should  not  express  myself  alto- 
gether as  you  do  on  religious  subjects.  Perhaps  the 
difference  may  be  more  than  one  of  words.  I  will 
not,  therefore,  enter  further  into  the  grave  question 
suggested  by  you,  except  to  say  that  I  am  sure  I 
shall  be  the  better  for  your  kind  wishes  and  reading 
your  books. 

The  recent  matter  of  Oxford  is  of  no  real  conse- 
quence, and  is  not  worth  speaking  about,  though  I 
am  very  grately  to  you  and  others  for  feeling  "in- 
dignant" at  the  refusal. 

With  sincere  respect  for  your  labours, 
Believe  me,  dear  Madam, 

Most  truly  yours, 

B.  JOWETT. 

P.S. — I  have  read  your  letter  again!  I  think 
that  I  ought  to  tell  you  that,  unless  you  had  been 
a  complete  stranger,  you  would  not  have  had  so 
good  an  opinion  of  me.  I  feel  the  kindness  of  your 
letter,  but  at  the  same  time,  if  I  believed  what  you 
say  of  me,  I  should  soon  become  a  "very  complete 
rascal."  Any  letter  like  yours,  which  is  written 
with  such  earnestness,  and  in  a  time  of  illness,  is  a 
serious  call  to  think  about  religion.  I  do  not  intend 
to  neglect  this  because  I  am  not  inclined  to  use  the 
same  language. 

[96] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

When  Jowett  became  Master,  his  pupils  and 
friends  gathered  round  him  and  overcame  the 
Church  chatter.  He  was  the  hardest-working  tutor, 
Vice-Chancellor  and  Master  that  Oxford  ever  had. 
Balliol,  under  his  regime,  grew  in  numbers  and  pro- 
duced more  scholars,  more  thinkers  and  more  polit- 
ical men  of  note  than  any  other  college  in  the 
university.  He  had  authority  and  a  unique 
prestige.  It  was  said  of  Dr.  Whewell  of  Trinity 
that  "knowledge  was  his  forte  and  omniscience  his 
foible";  the  same  might  have  been  said  of  the 
Master  and  was  expressed  in  a  college  epigram, 
written  by  an  undergraduate.  After  Jowett's 
death  I  cut  the  following  from  an  Oxford  maga- 
zine: 

The  author  of  a  famous  and  often  misquoted 
verse  upon  Professor  Jowett  has  written  me  a  note 
upon  his  lines  which  may  be  appropriately  inserted 
here.  "Several  versions,"  he  writes,  "have  appeared 
lately,  and  my  vanity  does  not  consider  them  im- 
provements.   The  lines  were  written: 

Tirst  come  I,  my  name  is  Jowett, 
There's  no  knowledge  but  I  know  it. 
I  am  Master  of  this  College, 
What  I  don't  know — is  not  knowledge.' 

**The  Tirst  come  I'  referred  to  its  being  a  masque 
of  the  College  in  which  fellows,  scholars,  etc.,  ap- 

[97] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

peared  in  order.  The  short,  disconnected  sentences 
were  intentional,  as  being  characteristic.  Such  a 
line  as  *A11  that  can  be  known  I  know  it'  (which 
some  newspapers  substituted  for  line  2)  would 
express  a  rather  vulgar,  Whewellian  foible  of  om- 
niscience, which  was  quite  foreign  to  the  Master's 
nature;  the  line  as  originally  written  was  intended 
to  express  the  rather  sad,  brooding  manner  the 
Master  had  of  giving  his  oracles,  as  though  he  were 
a  spectator  of  all  time  and  existence,  and  had  pene- 
trated into  the  mystery  of  things.  Of  course,  the 
last  line  expressed,  with  necessary  exaggeration, 
what,  as  a  fact,  was  his  attitude  to  certain  subjects 
in  which  he  refused  to  be  interested,  such  as  modern 
German  metaphysics,  philology,  and  Greek  in- 
scriptions." 

When  I  met  the  Master  in  1887,  I  was  young 
and  he  was  old;  but,  whether  from  insolence  or  in- 
sight, I  never  felt  this  difference.  I  do  not  think 
I  was  a  good  judge  of  age,  as  I  have  always  liked 
older  people  than  myself;  and  I  imagine  it  was 
because  of  this  unconsciousness  that  we  became  such 
wonderful  friends.  Jowett  was  younger  than  half 
the  young  people  I  know  now  and  we  understood 
each  other  perfectly.  If  I  am  hasty  in  making 
friends  and  skip  the  preface,  I  always  read  it 
afterwards. 

A  good  deal  of  controversy  has  arisen  over  the 
[981 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Master's  claim  to  greatness  by  some  of  the  younger 
generation.  It  is  not  denied  that  Jowett  was  a  man 
of  influence.  Men  as  different  as  Huxley,  Symonds, 
Lord  Lansdowne,  Lord  Bowen,  Lord  Milner,  Sir 
Robert  Morier  and  others  have  told  me  in  reverent 
and  affectionate  terms  how  much  they  owed  to  him 
and  to  his  inBuence.  It  is  not  denied  that  he  was  a 
kind  man ;  infinitely  generous,  considerate  and  good 
about  money.  It  may  be  denied  that  he  was  a  fine 
scholar  of  the  first  rank,  such  as  Munro  or  Jebb, 
although  no  one  denies  his  contributions  to  scholar- 
ship ;  but  the  real  question  remains :  was  he  a  great 
man?  There  are  big  men,  men  of  intellect,  intel- 
lectual men,  men  of  talent  and  men  of  action;  but 
the  great  man  is  difficult  to  find,  and  it  needs — 
apart  from  discernment — a  certain  greatness  to 
find  him.  The  Almighty  is  a  wonderful  handi- 
capper:  He  will  not  give  us  everything.  I  have 
never  met  a  woman  of  supreme  beauty  with  more 
than  a  mediocre  intellect,  by  which  I  do  not  mean 
intelligence.  There  may  be  some,  but  I  am  only 
writing  my  own  life,  and  I  have  not  met  them.  A 
person  of  magnetism,  temperament  and  quick  in- 
telligence may  have  neither  intellect  nor  character. 
I  have  known  one  man  whose  genius  lay  in  his  rapid 

[99] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

and  sensitive  understanding,  real  wit,  amazing 
charm  and  apparent  candour,  but  whose  meanness, 
ingratitude  and  instability  injured  everything  he 
touched.  You  can  only  discover  ingratitude  or  in- 
stability after  years  of  experience,  and  few  of  us,  I 
am  glad  to  think,  ever  suspect  meanness  in  our 
fellow-creatures;  the  discovery  is  as  painful  when 
you  find  it  as  the  discovery  of  a  worm  i^  the  heart 
of  a  rose.  A  man  may  have  a  fine  character  and  be 
taciturn^  stubborn  and  stupid.  Another  may  be 
brilliant,  sunny  and  generous,  but  self-indulgent, 
heartless  and  a  liar.  There  is  no  contradiction  I 
have  not  met  with  in  men  and  women:  the  rarest 
combination  is  to  find  fundamental  humbleness, 
freedom  from  self,  intrepid  courage  and  the  power 
to  love;  when  you  come  upon  these,  you  may  be 
quite  sure  that  you  are  in  the  presence  of  greatness. 
Human  beings  are  made  up  of  a  good  many 
pieces.  Nature,  character,  intellect  and  tempera- 
ment :  roughly  speaking,  these  headings  cover  every 
one.  The  men  and  women  whom  I  have  loved  best 
have  been  those  whose  natures  were  rich  and  sweet; 
but,  alas,  with  a  few  exceptions,  all  of  them  have 
had  gimcrack  characters;  and  the  qualities  which  I 
[100] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRApfit'  ' 

have  loved  in  them  have  been  ultimately  submerged 
by  self-indulgence. 

The  present  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  is  one  of 
these  exceptions:  he  has  a  sweet  and  rich  nature,  a 
fine  temper  and  is  quite  unspoilable.  I  have  only 
one  criticism  to  make  of  Randall  Davidson:  he  has 
too  much  moderation  for  his  intellect;  but  I  daresay 
he  would  not  have  steered  the  Church  through  so 
many  shallows  if  he  had  not  had  this  attribute.  I 
have  known  him  since  I  was  ten  (he  christened, 
confirmed,  married  and  buried  us  all) ;  and  his  faith 
in  such  quahties  of  head  and  heart  as  I  possess  has 
never  wavered.  He  reminds  me  of  Jowett  in  the 
soundness  of  his  nature  and  his  complete  absence 
of  vanity,  although  no  two  men  were  ever  less  alike. 
The  first  element  of  greatness  is  fundamental 
humbleness  (this  should  not  be  confused  with  ser- 
vility) ;  the  second  is  freedom  from  self;  the  third  is 
intrepid  courage,  which,  taken  in  its  widest  inter- 
pretation, generally  goes  with  truth;  and  the 
fourth,  the  power  to  love,  although  I  have  put  it 
last,  is  the  rarest.  If  these  go  to  the  makings  of  a 
great  man,  Jowett  possessed  them  all.  He  might 
have  mocked  at  the  confined  comprehension  of  Ox- 
ford and  exposed  the  arrogance,  vanity  and  conven- 

[101] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

tionality  of  the  Church ;  intellectual  scorn  and  even 
bitterness  might  have  come  to  him ;  but,  with  infinite 
patience  and  imperturbable  serenity,  he  preserved 
his  faith  in  his  fellow-creatures. 

"There  was  in  him  a  simple  trust  in  the  word  of 
other  men  that  won  for  him  a  devotion  and  service 
which  discipline  could  never  have  evoked."* 

Whether  his  criticisms  of  the  Bible  fluttered  the 
faith  of  the  flappers  in  Oxford,  or  whether  his  long 
silences  made  the  undergraduates  more  stupid  than 
they  would  otherwise  have  been,  I  care  little:  I  only 
know  that  he  was  what  I  call  great  and  that  he  had 
an  ennobling  influence  over  my  life.  He  was  appre- 
hensive of  my  social  reputation;  and  in  our  corre- 
spondence, which  started  directly  we  parted  at 
Gosford,  he  constantly  gave  me  wise  advice.  He 
was  extremely  simple-minded  and  had  a  pathetic 
belief  in  the  fine  manners,  high  tone,  wide  education 
and  lofty  example  of  the  British  aristocracy.  It 
shocked  him  that  I  did  not  share  it;  I  felt  his  warn- 
ings much  as  a  duck  swimming  might  feel  the 
duckings  of  a  hen  on  the  bank;  nevertheless,  I  loved 
his  exhortations.    In  one  of  his  letters  he  begs  me 

*I   read  these  words   in   an   obituary   notice  the   other  day  and 
thought  how  much  I  should  like  to  have  had  them  written  of  me. 

[102] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

to  give  up  the  idea  of  shooting  bears  with  the  Prince 
of  Wales  in  Russia.  It  was  the  first  I  had  heard 
of  it!  In  another  of  his  letters  to  me  he  ended 
thus: 

But  I  must  not  bore  you  with  good  advice. 
Child,  why  don't  you  make  a  better  use  of  your 
noble  gifts?  And  yet  you  do  not  do  anything 
wrong — only  what  other  people  do,  but  with  more 
success.  And  you  are  very  faithful  to  your  friends. 
And  so,  God  bless  you. 

He  was  much  shocked  by  hearing  that  I  smoked. 
This  is  what  he  says: 

What  are  you  doing — breaking  a  young  man's 
heart ;  not  the  first  time  nor  the  second,  nor  the  third 
— I  believe  ?  Poor  fellows !  they  have  paid  you  the 
highest  comphment  that  a  gentleman  can  pay  a 
lady,  and  are  deserving  of  all  love.  Shall  I  give 
you  a  small  piece  of  counsel?  It  is  better  for  you 
and  a  duty  to  them  that  their  disappointed  passions 
should  never  be  known  to  a  single  person,  for  as 
you  are  well  aware,  one  confidante  means  every 
body,  and  the  good-natured  world,  who  are  of 
course  very  jealous  of  you,  will  call  you  cruel  and 
a  breaker  of  hearts,  etc.  I  do  not  consider  this 
advice,  but  merely  a  desire  to  make  you  see  things 
as  others  see  them  or  nearly.  The  Symonds  girls 
at  Davos  told  me  that  you  smoked!!!  at  which  I 
am  shocked,  because  it  is  not  the  manner  of  ladies 
in  England.     I  always  imagine  you  with  a  long 

[103] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

hookah  puffing,  puffing,  since  I  heard  this ;  give  it 
up,  my  dear  Margaret — it  will  get  you  a  bad  name. 
Please  do  observe  that  I  am  always  serious  when 
I  try  to  make  fun.  I  hope  you  are  enjoying  life 
and  friends  and  the  weather:  and  believe  me 

Ever  yours  truly, 

B.    JOWETT. 

He  asked  me  once  if  I  ever  told  any  one  that  he 
wrote  to  me,  to  which  I  answered: 

"I  should  rather  think  so!  I  tell  every  railway 
porter!" 

This  distressed  him.  I  told  him  that  he  was  evi- 
dently ashamed  of  my  love  for  him,  but  that  I  was 
proud  of  it. 

JowETT  {after  a  long  silence) :  ''Would  you  like 
to  have  your  life  written,  Margaret?'' 

Maegot:  "Not  much,  unless  it  told  the  whole 
truth  about  me  and  every  one  and  was  indiscreet. 
If  I  could  have  a  biographer  like  Froude  or  Lord 
Hervey,  it  would  be  divine,  as  no  one  would  be 
bored  by  reading  it.  Who  will  you  choose  to  write 
your  life,  Master?" 

Jowett:  "No  one  will  be  in  a  position  to  write 
my  life,  Margaret."     (For  some  time  he  called  me 
Margaret;  he  thought  it  sounded  less  familiar  than 
Margot.) 
[104] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Margot:  "What  nonsense!  How  can  you  pos- 
sibly prevent  it?  If  you  are  not  very  good  to  me, 
I  may  even  write  it  myself !" 

JowETT  (smiling) :  "If  I  could  have  been  sure 
of  that,  I  need  not  have  burnt  all  my  correspond- 
ence! But  you  are  an  idle  young  lady  and  would 
certainly  never  have  concentrated  on  so  dull  a 
subject." 

Maegot  (indignantly) :  "Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  have  burnt  all  George  Eliot's  letters,  Matthew 
Arnold's,  Swinburne's,  Temple's  and  Tenny- 
son's?" 

Jowett:  "I  have  kept  one  or  two  of  George 
Eliot's  and  Florence  Nightingale's;  but  great  men 
do  not  write  good  letters." 

Margot:  "Do  you  know  Florence  Nightingale? 
I  wish  I  did." 

Jowett  (evidently  surprised  that  I  had  never 
heard  the  gossip  connecting  his  name  with  Florence 
Nightingale) :  "Why  do  you  want  to  know  her?" 

Maegot:  "Because  she  was  in  love  with  my 
friend  George  Pembroke's*  father." 

Jowett  (guardedly) :  "Oh,  indeed!    I  will  take 

*G€orge,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  uncle  of  the  present  Earl. 

[105] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

you  to  see  her  and  then  you  can  ask  her  about  all 
this." 

Maegot:  "I  should  love  that!  But  perhaps  she 
would  not  care  for  me." 

Jowett:  "I  do  not  think  she  will  care  for  you, 
but  would  you  mind  that?" 

Margot:  "Oh,  not  at  all!  I  am  quite  unf em- 
nine  in  those  ways.  When  people  leave  the  room, 
I  don't  say  to  myself,  "I  wonder  if  they  like  me," 
but,  "I  wonder  if  I  like  them." 

This  made  an  impression  on  the  Master,  or  I 
should  not  have  remembered  it.  Some  weeks  after 
this  he  took  me  to  see  Florence  Nightingale  in  her 
house  in  South  Street.  Groups  of  hospital  nurses 
were  waiting  outside  in  the  hall  to  see  her.  When 
we  went  in  I  noted  her  fine,  handsome,  well-bred 
face.  She  was  lying  on  a  sofa,  with  a  white  shawl 
round  her  shoulders  and,  after  shaking  hands  with 
her,  the  Master  and  I  sat  down.  She  pointed  to 
the  beautiful  Richmond  print  of  Sidney  Herbert, 
hanging  above  her  mantelpiece,  and  said  to  me: 

"I  am  interested  to  meet  you,  as  I  hear  George 
Pembroke,  the  son  of  my  old  and  dear  friend,  is 
devoted  to  you.  Will  you  tell  me  what  he  is  like?" 
[106] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  described  Lord  Pembroke,  while  Jowett  sat  in 
stony  silence  till  we  left  the  house. 

One  day,  a  few  months  after  this  visit,  I  was 
driving  in  the  vicinity  of  Oxford  with  the  Master 
and  I  said  to  him: 

"You  never  speak  of  your  relations  to  me  and 
you  never  tell  me  whether  you  were  in  love  when 
you  were  young;  I  have  told  you  so  much  about 
myself!" 

Jowett:  "Have  you  ever  heard  that  I  was  in 
love  with  any  one  ?" 

I  did  not  like  to  tell  him  that,  since  our  visit  to 
Florence  Nightingale,  I  had  heard  that  he  had 
wanted  to  marry  her,  so  I  said : 

"Yes,  I  have  been  told  you  were  in  love  once." 

Jowett:  "Only  once?" 

Margot:  "Yes." 

Complete  silence  fell  upon  us  after  this :  I  broke 
it  at  last  by  saying: 

"What  was  your  lady-love  like,  dear  Master?" 

Jowett:  "Violent     .     .     .     very  violent." 

After  this  disconcerting  description,  we  drove 
back  to  Balliol. 

Mrs.  Humphry  Ward's  novel  Robert  Elsmere 
had  just  been  published  and  was  dedicated  to  my 

[107] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

sister  Laura  and  Thomas  Hill  Green,  Jowett's  rival 

in  Oxford.    This  is  what  the  Master  wrote  to  me 

about  it: 

"iVot;.  28,  1888. 
Dear  Miss  Tennant, 

I  have  just  finished  examining  for  the  Balliol 
Scholarships :  a  great  institution  of  which  you  may 
possibly  have  heard.  To  what  shall  I  liken  it?  It 
is  not  unlike  a  man  casting  into  the  sea  a  great  drag- 
net, and  when  it  is  full  of  fish,  pulling  it  up  again 
and  taking  out  fishes,  good,  bad  and  indifferent, 
and  throwing  the  bad  and  indifferent  back  again 
into  the  sea.  Among  the  good  fish  there  have  been 
Archbishop  Tait,  Dean  Stanley,  A.  H.  Clough, 
Mr.  Arnold,  Lord  Coleridge,  Lord  Justice  Bowen, 
Mr.  Ilbert,  &c.,  &c.,  &c.  The  institution  was 
founded  about  sixty  years  ago. 

I  have  been  dining  alone  rather  dismally,  and 
now  I  shall  imagine  that  I  receive  a  visit  from  a 
young  lady  about  twenty-three  years  of  age,  who 
enlivens  me  by  her  prattle.  Is  it  her  or  her  angel? 
But  I  believe  that  she  is  an  angel,  pale,  volatile  and 
like  Laodamia  in  Wordsworth,  ready  to  disappear 
at  a  moment's  notice.  I  could  write  a  description 
of  her,  but  am  not  sure  that  I  could  do  her  justice. 

I  wish  that  I  could  say  anything  to  comfort  you, 
my  dear  Margot,  or  even  to  make  you  laugh.  But 
no  one  can  comfort  another.  The  memory  of  a 
beautiful  character  is  "a  joy  for  ever,"  especially 
of  one  who  was  bound  to  you  in  ties  of  perfect 
amity.     I  saw  what  your  sister*  was  from  two 

•Mrs.   Gordon    DuflF. 

rio8] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

short  conversations  which  I  had  with  her,  and  from 
the  manner  in  which  she  was  spoken  of  at  Davos. 

I  send  you  the  book*  which  I  spoke  of,  though  I 
hardly  know  whether  it  is  an  appropriate  present; 
at  any  rate  I  do  not  expect  you  to  read  it.  It  has 
taken  me  the  last  year  to  revise  and,  in  parts,  re- 
write it.  The  great  interest  of  it  is  that  it  belongs 
to  a  different  age  of  the  human  mind,  in  which 
there  is  so  much  like  and  also  unlike  ourselves. 
Many  of  our  commonplaces  and  common  words  are 
being  thought  out  for  the  first  time  by  Plato.  Add 
to  this  that  in  the  original  this  book  is  the  most  per- 
fect work  of  art  in  the  world.  I  wonder  whether  it 
will  have  any  meaning  or  interest  for  you. 

You  asked  me  once  whether  I  desired  to  make  a 
Sister  of  Charity  of  you.  Certainly  not  (although 
there  are  worse  occupations) ;  nor  do  I  desire  to 
make  anything.  But  your  talking  about  plans  of 
life  does  lead  me  to  think  of  what  would  be  best 
and  happiest  for  you.  I  do  not  object  to  the  hunt- 
ing and  going  to  Florence  and  Rome,  but  should 
there  not  be  some  higher  end  to  which  these  are  the 
steps?  I  think  that  you  might  happily  fill  up  a 
great  portion  of  your  life  with  literature  (I  am  con- 
vinced that  you  have  considerable  talent  and  might 
become  eminent)  and  a  small  portion  with  works  of 
benevolence,  just  to  keep  us  in  love  and  charity 
with  our  poor  neighbours;  and  the  rest  I  do  not 
grudge  to  society  and  hunting.  Do  you  think  that 
I  am  a  hard  taskmaster?  Not  very,  I  think.  More 
especially  as  you  will  not  be  led  away  by  my  good 
advice.    You  see  that  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  you 

*  Plato's  Rppublic. 

[109] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

hunting  and  ballet-dancing  when  you  are  "fair,  fat 
and  forty-five."  Do  prepare  yourself  for  that  awful 
age. 

I  went  to  see  Mrs.  H.  Ward  the  other  day:  she 
insists  on  doing  battle  with  the  reviewer  in  the 
Quarterly,  and  is  thinking  of  another  novel,  of 
which  the  subject  will  be  the  free-thinking  of  honest 
working-men  in  Paris  and  elsewhere.  People  say 
that  in  Robert  Elsmere  Rose  is  intended  for  you, 
Catherine  for  your  sister  Laura,  the  Squire  for 
Mark  Pattison,  the  Provost  for  me,  etc.,  and  Mr. 
Grey  for  Professor  Green.  All  the  portraits  are 
about  equally  unlike  the  originals. 

Good-bye,  you  have  been  sitting  with  me  for 
nearly  an  hour,  and  now,  like  Laodamia  or  Protesi- 
laus,  you  disappear.  1  have  been  the  better  for 
your  company.  One  serious  word:  May  God  bless 
you  and  help  you  in  this  and  every  other  great  hurt 
of  life. 

Ever  yours, 

B.  JOWETT. 

I  will  publish  all  his  letters  to  me  together,  as, 
however  delightful  letters  may  be,  I  find  they  bore 
me  when  they  are  scattered  all  through  an  auto- 
biography. 

Marcn  11th,  1889. 
My  dear  Margaret, 

As  you  say,  friendships  grow  dull  if  two  persons 
do  not  care  to  write  to  one  another.  I  was  be- 
ginning to  think  that  you  resented  my  censorious 
criticisms  on  your  youthful  life  and  happiness. 

[110] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Can  youth  be  serious  without  ceasing  to  be  youth? 
I  think  it  may.  The  desire  to  promote  the  happi- 
ness of  others  rather  than  your  own  may  be  always 
^'breaking  in."  As  my  poor  sister  (of  whom  I  will 
talk  to  you  some  day)  would  say:  "When  others 
are  happy,  then  I  am  happy."  She  used  to  com- 
mend the  religion  of  Sydney  Smith — "Never  to  let 
a  day  pass  without  doing  a  kindness  to  some  body" 
— and  I  think  that  you  understand  something  about 
this;  or  you  would  not  be  so  popular  and  beloved. 

You  ask  me  what  persons  I  have  seen  lately:  I 
doubt  whether  they  would  interest  you.  Mr.  Well- 
don,  the  Headmaster  of  Harrow,  a  very  honest  and 
able  man  with  a  long  life  before  him,  and  if  he 
is  not  too  honest  and  open,  not  unlikely  to  be  an 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  Mr.  J.  M.  Wilson, 
Headmaster  of  Clifton  College — a  very  kind;, 
genial  and  able  man — ^there  is  a  great  deal  of  him 
and  in  him — not  a  man  of  good  judgment,  but  very 
devoted — a  first-rate  man  in  his  way.  Then  I  have 
seen  a  good  deal  of  Lord  Rosebery — very  able, 
shy,  sensitive,  ambitious,  the  last  two  qualities 
rather  at  war  with  each  other — very  likely  a  future 
Prime  Minister.  I  like  Lady  Rosebery  too — ^very 
sensible  and  high-principled,  not  at  all  inclined  to 
give  up  her  Judaism  to  please  the  rest  of  the  world. 
They  are  rather  overloaded  with  wealth  and  fine 
houses :  they  are  both  very  kind.  I  also  like  Lady 
Leconfield,*  whom  I  saw  at  Mentone.  Then  I  paid 
a  visit  to  Tennyson,  who  has  had  a  lingering  illness 
of  six  months,  perhaps  fatal,  as  he  is  eighty  years 

*Lady  Leconfield  was  a  sister  of  Lord  Rosebery's  and  one  of  my 
dearest  friends. 

[Ill] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

of  age.  It  was  pleasing  to  see  how  he  takes  it,  very 
patient  and  without  fear  of  death,  unlike  his  former 
state  of  mind.  Though  he  is  so  sensitive,  he  seemed 
to  me  to  bear  his  illness  like  a  great  man.  He  has 
a  volume  of  poems  waiting  to  come  out — some  of 
them  as  good  as  he  ever  wrote.  Was  there  ever  an 
octogenarian  poet  before? 

Doctor  Johnson  used  to  say  that  he  never  in  his 
life  had  eaten  as  much  fruit  as  he  desired.  I  think 
I  never  talked  to  you  as  much  as  I  desired.  You 
once  told  me  that  you  would  show  me  your  novel.* 
Is  it  a  reality  or  a  myth?  I  should  be  interested  to 
see  it  if  you  like  to  send  me  that  or  any  other  writ- 
ing of  yours. 

Robert  Elsmere,  as  the  authoress  tells  me,  has 
sold  60,000  in  England  and  400,000  in  America! 
It  has  considerable  merit,  but  its  success  is  really 
due  to  its  saying  what  everybody  is  thinking.  I  am 
astonished  at  her  knowing  so  much  about  German 
theology — she  is  a  real  scholar  and  takes  up  things 
of  the  right  sort.  I  do  not  believe  that  Mrs.  Ward 
ever  said  "she  had  pulverised  Christianity."  These 
things  are  invented  about  people  by  the  orthodox, 
i.  e.,  the  infidel  world,  in  the  hope  that  they  will  do 
them  harm.  What  do  you  think  of  being  "laughed 
to  death"?    It  would  be  like  being  tickled  to  death. 

Good-bye, 

Ever  yours  truly, 

B.  JOWETT. 

*I  began  two,  but  they  were  not  at  all  clever  and  have  long  since 
disappeared. 

[1121 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Balliol  College, 

May  22nd,  1891. 
My  deah  Margaret, 

It  was  very  good  of  you  to  write  me  such  a  nice 
note.  I  hope  you  are  better.  I  rather  beheve  in 
people  being  able  to  cure  themselves  of  many  ill- 
nesses if  they  are  tolerably  prudent  and  have  a 
great  spirit. 

I  liked  your  two  friends  who  visited  me  last 
Sunday,  and  shall  hope  to  make  them  friends  of 
mine.  Asquith  is  a  capital  fellow,  and  has  abilities 
which  may  rise  to  the  highest  things  in  the  law  and 
politics.  He  is  also  very  pleasant  socially.  I  like 
your  lady  friend.  She  has  both  "Sense  and  Sensi- 
bility," and  is  free  from  "Pride  and  Prejudice." 
She  told  me  that  she  had  been  brought  up  by  an 
Evangelical  grandmother,  and  is  none  the  worse 
for  it. 

I  begin  to  think  bed  is  a  very  nice  place,  and  I  see 
a  great  deal  of  it,  not  altogether  from  laziness,  but 
because  it  is  the  only  way  in  which  I  am  able  to 
work. 

I  have  just  read  the  life  of  Newman,  who  was 
a  strange  character.  To  me  he  seems  to  have  been 
the  most  artificial  man  of  our  generation,  full  of 
ecclesiastical  loves  and  hatred.  Considering  what 
he  really  was,  it  is  wonderful  what  a  space  he  has 
filled  in  the  eyes  of  mankind.  In  speculation  he  was 
habitually  untruthful  and  not  much  better  in  prac- 
tice. His  conscience  had  been  taken  out,  and  the 
Church  put  in  its  place.  Yet  he  was  a  man  of 
genius,  and  a  good  man  in  the  sense  of  being  dis- 
interested.    Truth  is  very  often  troublesome,  but 

[113] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

neither  the  world  nor  the  individual  can  get  on 
without  it. 

Here  is  the  postman  appearing  at  12  o'clock,  as 
disagreeable  a  figure  as  the  tax-gatherer. 

May  you  have  good  sleep  and  pleasant  dreams. 
I  shall  still  look  forward  to  seeing  you  with  Lady 
Wemyss. 

Believe  me  always, 

Yours  affectionately, 

B.   JOWETT. 

BaIxLiol  College, 

Sep.  8, 1892. 
My  dear  Margaret, 

Your  kind  letter  was  a  very  sweet  consolation  to 
me.    It  was  like  you  to  think  of  a  friend  in  trouble. 

Poor  Nettleship,  whom  we  have  lost,  was  a  man 
who  cannot  be  replaced — certainly  not  in  Oxford. 
He  was  a  very  good  man,  and  had  a  considerable 
touch  of  genius  in  him.  He  seems  to  have  died 
bravely,  telling  the  guides  not  to  be  cowards,  but  to 
save  their  lives.  He  also  sang  to  them  to  keep  them 
awake,  saying  (this  was  so  like  him)  that  he  had  no 
voice,  but  that  he  would  do  his  best.  He  probably 
sang  that  song  of  Salvator  Rosa's  which  we  have 
so  often  heard  from  him.  He  was  wonderfully  be- 
loved by  the  undergraduates,  because  they  knew 
that  he  cared  for  them  more  than  for  anything  else 
in  the  world. 

Of  his  writings  there  is  not  much,  except  what 
you  have  read,  and  a  long  essay  on  Plato  in  a  book 
called  Hellenism — ^very  good.  He  was  beginning 
to  write,  and  I  think  would  have  written  well.    He 

[114] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

was  also  an  excellent  speaker  and  lecturer — Mr. 
Asquith  would  tell  you  about  him. 

I  have  received  many  letters  about  him — but 
none  of  them  has  touched  me  as  much  as  yours. 
Thank  you,  dear. 

I  see  that  you  are  in  earnest  about  writing — no 
slipshod  or  want  of  connection.  Writing  requires 
boundless  leisure,  and  is  an  infinite  labour,  yet  there 
is  also  a  very  great  pleasure  in  it.  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted to  read  your  sketches. 

Balliol  College, 

Dec.  27th,  1892. 
My  dear  Margaret, 

I  have  been  reading  Lady  Jeune's  two  articles. 
I  am  glad  that  you  did  not  write  them  and  have 
never  written  anything  of  that  sort.  These  criti- 
cisms on  Society  in  which  some  of  us  "live  and  move 
and  have  our  being"  are  mistaken.  In  the  first 
place,  the  whole  fabric  of  society  is  a  great  mystery, 
with  which  we  ought  not  to  take  liberties,  and  which 
should  be  spoken  of  only  in  a  whisper  when  we  com- 
pare our  experiences,  whether  in  a  walk  or  tete-a- 
tete,  or  "over  the  back  hair"  with  a  faithful,  reserved 
confidante.  And  there  is  also  a  great  deal  that  is 
painful  in  the  absence  of  freedom  in  the  division  of 
ranks,  and  the  rising  or  falling  from  one  place  in 
it  to  another.  I  am  convinced  that  it  is  a  thing  not 
to  be  spoken  of;  what  we  can  do  to  improve  it  or 
do  it  good — whether  I,  the  head  of  a  college  at  Ox- 
ford, or  a  young  lady  of  fashion  (I  know  that  you 
don't  like  to  be  called  that) — ^must  be  done  quite 
silently, 

[115] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Lady  Jeune  believes  that  all  the  world  would  go 
right,  or  at  least  be  a  great  deal  better,  if  it  were 
not  for  the  Nouveaux  Riches.  Some  of  the  Eton 
masters  talk  to  me  in  the  same  way.  I  agree  with 
our  dear  friend,  Lady  Wemyss,  that  the  truth  is 
"the  old  poor  are  so  jealous  of  them."  We  must 
study  the  arts  of  uniting  Society  as  a  whole,  not 
clinging  to  any  one  class  of  it — what  is  possible  and 
desirable  to  what  is  impossible  and  undesirable. 

I  hope  you  are  none  the  worse  for  your  great  ef- 
fort. You  know  it  interests  me  to  hear  what  you 
are  about  if  you  have  time  and  inclination  to  write. 
I  saw  your  friend,  Mr.  Asquith,  last  night:  very 
nice  and  not  at  all  puffed  up  with  his  great  office.* 
The  fortunes  of  the  Ministry  seem  very  doubtful. 
There  is  a  tendency  to  follow  Lord  Rosebery  in 
the  Cabinet.  Some  think  that  the  Home  Rule  Bill 
will  be  pushed  to  the  second  reading,  then  dropped, 
and  a  new  shuffle  of  the  cards  will  take  place  under 
Lord  Rosebery:  this  seems  to  me  very  likely.  The 
Ministry  has  very  little  to  spare  and  they  are  not 
gaining  ground,  and  the  English  are  beginning  to 
hate  the  Irish  and  the  Priests. 

I  hope  that  all  things  go  happily  with  you.  Tell 
me  some  of  your  thoughts.  I  have  been  reading 
Mr.  Milner's  book  with  great  satisfaction — most 
interesting  and  very  important.  I  fear  that  I  have 
written  you  a  dull  and  meandering  epistle. 

Ever  yours, 

B.  JOWETT, 

•The  Home  Office. 

[116] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Balliol  College, 

Feb,  13, 1893. 
My  dear  Margaret, 

I  began  at  ten  minutes  to  twelve  last  night  to 
write  to  you,  but  as  the  postman  appeared  at  five 
minutes  to  twelve,  it  was  naturally  cut  short.  May 
I  begin  where  I  left  off?  I  sliould  like  to  talk  to 
you  about  many  things.  1  hope  you  will  not  say, 
as  Johnson  says  to  Boswell,  "Sir,  you  have  only 
two  subjects,  yourself  and  me,  and  I  am  heartily 
sick  of  both." 

I  have  been  delighted  with  Mr.  Asquith's  suc- 
cess. He  has  the  certainty  of  a  great  man  in  him — 
such  strength  and  simplicity  and  independence  and 
superiority  to  the  world  and  the  clubs.  You  seem 
to  me  very  fortunate  in  having  three  such  friends 
as  Mr.  Asquith,  Mr.  Milner  and  Mr.  Balfour.  I 
believe  that  you  may  do  a  great  deal  for  them,  and 
they  are  probably  the  first  men  of  their  time,  or  not 
very  far  short  of  it. 

Mr.  Balfour  is  not  so  good  a  leader  of  the  House 
of  Commons  in  opposition  as  he  was  when  he  was 
in  office.  He  is  too  aggressive  and  not  dignified 
enough.  I  fear  that  he  will  lose  weight.  He  had 
better  not  coquette  with  the  foolish  and  unpractical 
thing  "Bimetallism,"  or  write  books  on  "Philoso- 
phic Doubt";  for  there  are  many  things  which  we 
must  certainly  believe,  are  there  not  ?  Quite  enough 
either  for  the  highest  idealism  or  for  ordinary  life. 
He  will  probably,  like  Sir  R.  Peel,  have  to  change 
many  of  his  opinions  in  the  course  of  the  next  thirty 
years  and  he  should  be  on  his  guard  about  this,  or 
he  will  commit  himself  in  such  a  manner  that  he  may 

[117] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

have  to  withdraw  from  politics  (about  the  currency, 
about  the  Church,  about  Socialism). 

Is  this  to  be  the  last  day  of  Gladstone's  life  in 
the  House  of  Commons?  It  is  very  pathetic  to 
think  of  the  aged  man  making  his  last  great  display 
almost  in  opposition  to  the  convictions  of  his  whole 
life.  I  hope  that  he  will  acquit  himself  well  and 
nobly,  and  then  it  does  not  much  matter  whether 
or  no  he  dies  like  Lord  Chatham  a  few  days  after- 
wards. It  seems  to  me  that  his  Ministry  have  not 
done  badly  during  the  last  fortnight.  They  have, 
to  a  great  extent,  removed  the  impression  they  had 
created  in  England  that  they  were  the  friends  of 
disorder.  Do  you  know,  I  cannot  help  feeling  I 
have  more  of  the  Liberal  element  in  me  than  of  the 
Conservative?  This  rivalry  between  the  parties, 
each  surprising  the  other  by  their  liberality,  has 
done  a  great  deal  of  good  to  the  people  of  England. 

Headington  Hill, 

near  Oxford, 
July  30th,  1893. 
My  dear  Margaret, 

Did  you  ever  read  these  lines? — 

'Tis  said  that  marriages  are  made  above — 
It  may  be  so,  some  few,  perhaps,  for  love. 
But  from  the  smell  of  sulphur  I  should  say 
They  must  be  making  matches  here  all  day. 

(Orpheus  returning  from  the  lower  world  in  a 
farce  called  The  Olj/mpic  Devils,  which  used  to  be 
played  when  I  was  young. ) 

[118] 


LORD  MIDDIJ:T0K,  better   known   as  ST.  JOHN   BRODRICK: 
FORMER   SECRETARY  OF  STATE   FOR   WAR 


JOHK  AODIirOTON  8YM0NDS, 
WHO  ENCOURAGED  MAROOt's 
LITERARY  ENDEAVOURS 


FOUR  0KNERAT10N8  OF  ENGLAND  8  ROYAI,  FAMILY:  QUBBN 
VICTORIA,    KIKO  EDWARD  VII,    KINO  OEOROB  V   AND 
HI8  SON,  THE  PRINCE  OF  WALES 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Miss  Nightingale  talks  to  me  of  "the  feelings 
usually  called  love,"  but  then  she  is  a  heroine,  per- 
haps a  goddess. 

This  love-making  is  a  very  serious  business, 
though  society  makes  fun  of  it,  perhaps  to  test  the 
truth  and  earnestness  of  the  lovers. 

Dear,  I  am  an  old  man,  what  the  poet  calls  "on 
the  threshold  of  old  age"  (Homer),  and  I  am  not 
very  romantic  or  sentimental  about  such  things, 
but  I  would  do  anything  I  could  to  save  any  one 
who  cares  for  me  from  making  a  mistake. 

I  think  that  you  are  quite  right  in  not  running 
the  risk  without  a  modest  abode  in  the  country. 

The  real  doubt  about  the  affair  is  the  family; 
will  you  consider  this  and  talk  it  over  with  your 
mother?  The  other  day  you  were  at  a  masqued 
ball,  as  you  told  me — a  few  months  hence  you  will 
have,  or  rather  may  be  having,  the  care  of  five 
children,  with  all  the  ailments  and  miseries  and  dis- 
agreeables of  children  (unlike  the  children  of  some 
of  your  friends)  and  not  your  own,  although  you 
will  have  to  be  a  mother  to  them,  and  this  state  of 
things  will  last  during  the  greatest  part  of  your 
life.  Is  not  the  contrast  more  than  human  nature 
can  endure?  I  know  that  it  is,  as  you  said,  a  nobler 
manner  of  living,  but  are  you  equal  to  such  a  strug- 
gle. If  you  are,  I  can  only  say,  "God  bless  you, 
you  are  a  brave  girl."  But  I  would  not  have  you 
disguise  from  yourself  the  nature  of  the  trial.  It 
is  not  possible  to  be  a  leader  of  fashion  and  to  do 
your  duty  to  the  five  children. 

On  the  other  hand,  you  have  at  your  feet  a  man 
of  outstanding  ability  and  high  character,  and  who 

[119] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

has  attained  an  extraordinary  position — far  better 
than  any  aristocratic  lath  or  hop-pole;  and  you  can 
render  him  the  most  material  help  by  your  abilities 
and  knowledge  of  the  world.  Society  will  be  graci- 
ous to  you  because  you  are  a  grata  persona,  and 
everybody  will  wish  you  well  because  you  have 
made  the  sacrifice.  You  may  lead  a  much  higher 
life  if  you  are  yourself  equal  to  it. 

To-day  I  read  Hume's  life — by  himself — very 
striking.  You  will  find  it  generally  at  the  begin- 
ning of  his  History  of  England.  There  have  been 
saints  among  infidels  too,  e.g.,  Hume  and  Spinoza, 
on  behalf  of  whom  I  think  it  a  duty  to  say  some- 
thing as  the  Church  has  devoted  them  to  eternal 
flames.  To  use  a  German  phrase,  "They  were 
^Christians  in  unconsciousness.'  "  That  describes  a 
good  many  people.  I  believe  that  as  Christians  we 
should  get  rid  of  a  good  many  doubtful  phrases  and 
speak  only  through  our  lives. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Margaret, 

Yours  truly  and  affectionately, 

B.  JOWETT. 

Balliol, 

Sunday,    1893. 
My  dear  Margaret, 

I  quite  agree  with  you  that  what  we  want  most 
in  life  is  rest  and  peace.  To  act  up  to  our  best 
lights,  that  is  quite  enough ;  there  need  be  no  trouble 
about  dogmas,  which  are  hardly  intelligible  to  us, 
nor  ought  there  to  be  any  trouble  about  historical 
facts,  including  miracles,  of  which  the  view  of  the 
world  has  naturally  altered  in  the  course  of  ages. 

[120] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  include  in  this  such  Questions  as  whether  Our 
Lord  rose  from  the  dead  in  any  natural  sense  of  the 
words.  It  is  quite  a  different  question,  whether  we 
shall  imitate  Him  in  His  life. 

I  am  glad  you  think  about  these  questions,  and 
shall  be  pleased  to  talk  to  you  about  them.  What 
I  have  to  say  about  religion  is  contained  in  two 
words:  Truth  and  Goodness,  but  I  would  not  have 
one  without  the  other,  and  if  I  had  to  choose  be- 
tween them,  might  be  disposed  to  give  Truth  the 
first  place.  I  think,  also,  that  you  might  put  re- 
ligion in  another  way,  as  absolute  resignation  to  the 
Will  of  God  and  the  order  of  nature.  There  might 
be  other  definitions,  equally  true,  but  none  suited 
better  than  another  to  the  characters  of  men,  such 
as  the  imitation  of  Christ,  or  the  truth  in  all  re- 
ligions, which  would  be  an  adequate  description  of 
it.  The  Christian  religion  seems  to  me  to  extend  to 
all  the  parts  and  modes  of  life,  and  then  to  come 
back  to  our  hearts  and  conscience.  I  think  that  the 
best  way  of  considering  it,  and  the  most  interesting, 
is  to  view  it  as  it  may  be  seen  in  the  lives  of  good 
men  everywhere,  whether  Christians  or  so-called 
heathens — Socrates,  Plato,  Marcus  Aurelius,  St. 
Augustine,  as  well  as  in  the  lives  of  Christ,  or  Bun- 
yan,  or  Spinoza.  The  study  of  religious  biography 
seems  to  me  one  of  the  best  modes  of  keeping  up 
Christian  feeling. 

As  to  the  question  of  Disestablishment,  I  am  not 
like  Mr.  Balfour,  I  wobble  rather,  yet,  on  the  whole, 
I  agree  with  Mr.  Gladstone,  certainly  about  the 
Welsh  Church.  Churches  are  so  worldly  and  so 
much  allied  to  the  interests  of  the  higher  classes.    I 

[121] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

think  that  a  person  who  belongs  to  a  Church  should 
always  endeavour  to  live  above  his  Church,  above 
the  sermon  and  a  good  part  of  the  prayer,  above  the 
Athanasian  Creed,  and  the  form  of  Ordination, 
above  the  passions  of  party  feelings  and  public 
meetings.  The  best  individuals  have  always  been 
better  than  Churches,  though  I  do  not  go  so  far  as 
a  German  professor,  who  thinks  that  people  will 
never  be  religious  until  they  leave  off  going  to 
church,  yet  I  am  of  opinion  that  in  every  congrega- 
tion the  hearers  should  attempt  to  raise  themselves 
above  the  tone  of  the  preacher  and  of  the  service. 

I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  Mr.  Balfour,  who  has 
so  much  that  is  liberal  in  him,  is  of  an  extreme 
opposite  opinion.  But  I  feel  that  I  have  talked 
long  enough  on  a  subject  which  may  not  interest 
you,  but  of  which  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you  again 
when  we  meet.  It  seems  to  me  probable  that  the 
Church  will  be  disestablished,  because  it  has  been 
so  already  in  most  countries  of  Europe,  and  because 
the  school  is  everywhere  taking  its  place. 

I  shall  look  forward  to  your  coming  to  see  me, 
if  I  am  seriously  ill — "Be  with  me  when  my  light  is 
low."  But  I  don't  think  that  this  illness  which  I 
at  present  have  is  serious  enough  to  make  any  of 
my  friends  anxious,  and  it  would  be  rather  awkward 
for  my  friends  to  come  and  take  leave  of  me  if  I 
recovered,  which  I  mean  to  do,  for  what  I  think  a 
good  reason — because  I  still  have  a  good  deal  to  do. 

B.  JOWETT. 

My  beloved  friend  died  in  1893. 
The  year  before  his  death  he  had  the  dangerous 
[122] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

illness  to  which  he  alludes  in  the  above  letter. 
Every  one  thought  he  would  die.  He  dictated  fare- 
well letters  to  all  his  friends  by  his  secretary  and 
housekeeper,  Miss  Knight.  On  receiveing  mine 
from  him  at  Glen,  I  was  so  much  annoyed  at  its 
tone  that  I  wired: 

Jowett  Balliol  College  Oxford. 

I  refuse  to  accept  this  as  your  farewell  letter  to 
me  you  have  been  listening  to  some  silly  woman 
and  believing  what  she  says.    Love. 

Margot. 

This  telegram  had  a  magical  effect :  he  got  stead- 
ily better  and  wrote  me  a  wonderful  letter.  I  re- 
member the  reason  that  I  was  vexed  was  because 
he  believed  a  report  that  I  had  knocked  up  against 
a  foreign  potentate  in  Rotten  Row  for  a  bet,  which 
was  not  only  untrue  but  ridiculous,  and  I  was  get- 
ting a  little  impatient  of  the  cattishness  and  cred- 
ulity of  the  West-end  of  London. 

My  week-ends  at  Balliol  were  different  to  my 
other  visits.  The  Master  took  infinite  trouble  over 
them.  Once  on  my  arrival  he  asked  me  which  of 
one  or  two  men  I  would  like  to  sit  next  to  at  dinner. 
I  said  I  should  prefer  Mr.  Huxley  or  Lord  Bowen, 
to  which  he  replied : 

[128] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

"I  would  like  you  to  have  on  your  other  side, 
either  to-night  or  to-morrow,  my  friend  Lord  Sel- 
bome* : 

Maegot  {with  surprise) :  "Since  when  is  he  your 
friend?  I  was  under  the  impression  you  disliked 
him." 

Jowett:  "Your  impression  was  right,  but  even 
the  youngest  of  us  are  sometimes  wrong,  as  Dr. 
Thompson  said,  and  I  look  upon  Lord  Selbome 
now  as  a  friend.  I  hope  I  said  nothing  against 
him." 

Margot:  "Oh  dear  no  I  You  only  said  he  was 
fond  of  hymns  and  had  no  sense  of  humour." 

JowETT  (snappishly) :  "If  that  is  so,  Margaret, 
I  made  an  extremely  foolish  remark.  I  will  put 
you  between  Lord  Bowen  and  Sir  Alfred  Lyall. 
Was  it  not  strange  that  you  should  have  said  of 
Lyall  to  Huxley  that  he  reminded  you  of  a  faded 
Crusader  and  that  you  suspected  him  of  wearing  a 
coat  of  mail  under  his  broadcloth,  to  which  you  will 
remember  Huxley  remarked,  *You  mean  a  coating 
of  female,  without  which  no  man  is  saved  I'  Your 
sister,  Lady  Ribblesdale,  said  the  very  same  thing 
to  me  about  him." 

*The  late  Earl  of  Selbome. 

[124] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

This  interested  me,  as  Charty  and  I  had  not 
spoken  to  each  other  of  Sir  Alfred  Lyall,  who  was 
a  new  acquaintance  of  ours. 

Margot:  "I  am  sure,  Master,  you  did  not  give 
her  the  same  answer  as  Mr.  Huxley  gave  me;  you 
don't  think  well  of  my  sex,  do  you?" 

Jowett:  "You  are  not  the  person  to  reproach 
me,  Margaret :  only  the  other  week  I  reproved  you 
for  saying  women  were  often  dull,  sometimes  dan- 
gerous and  always  dishonourable.  I  might  have 
added  they  were  rarely  reasonable  and  always  cour- 
ageous.   Would  you  agree  to  this  ?" 

Margot:  "Yes." 

I  sat  between  Sir  Alfred  Lyall  and  Lord  Bowen 
that  night  at  dinner.  There  was  more  bouquet  than 
body  about  Sir  Alfred  and,  to  parody  Gibbon,  Lord 
Bowen's  mind  was  not  clouded  by  enthusiasm;  but 
two  more  delightful  men  never  existed.  After  din- 
ner, Huxley  came  across  the  room  to  me  and  said 
that  the  Master  had  confessed  he  had  done  him  out 
of  sitting  next  to  me,  so  would  I  talk  to  him?  We 
sat  down  together  and  our  conversation  opened  on 
religion. 

There  was  not  much  jjuste  milieu  about  Huxley. 
He  began  by  saying  God  was  only  there  because 

[125] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

people  believed  in  Him,  and  that  the  fastidious  in- 
cognito, "I  am  that  I  am,"  was  His  idea  of  humour, 
etc.,  etc.  He  ended  by  saying  he  did  not  believe  any 
man  of  action  had  ever  been  inspired  by  religion. 
I  thought  I  would  call  in  Lord  Bowen,  who  was 
standing  aimlessly  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  to  my 
assistance.  He  instantly  responded  and  drew  a 
chair  up  to  us.    I  said  to  him : 

"Mr.  Huxley  challenges  me  to  produce  any  man 
of  action  who  has  been  directly  inspired  by  re- 
ligion." 

BowEN  (with  a  sleek  smile) :  *^*Between  us  we 
should  be  able  to  answer  him,  Miss  Tennant,  I 
think.    Who  is  your  man?" 

Every  idea  seemed  to  scatter  out  of  my  brain.  I 
suggested  at  random: 

"Gordon." 

I  might  have  been  reading  his  thoughts,  for  it  so 
happened  that  Huxley  adored  General  Gordon. 

Huxley:  "Ah!    There  you  rather  have  me!" 

He  had  obviously  had  enough  of  me,  for,  chang- 
ing the  position  of  his  chair,  as  if  to  engage  Bowen 
in  a  tete-a-tete,  he  said : 

"My  dear  Bowen,  Gordon  was  the  most  remark- 
able man  I  ever  met.  I  know  him  well;  he  was 
[126] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

sincere  and  disinterested,  quite  incapable  of  saying 
anything  he  did  not  think.  You  will  hardly  believe 
me,  but  one  day  he  said  in  tones  of  passionate 
conviction  that,  if  he  were  to  walk  round  the  corner 
of  the  street  and  have  his  brains  shot  out,  he  would 
only  be  transferred  to  a  wider  sphere  of  govern- 
ment." 

Bowen:  "Would  the  absence  of  brains  have  been 
of  any  help  to  him?" 

After  this,  our  mutual  good  humoui  was  restored 
and  I  only  had  time  for  a  word  with  Mrs.  Green 
before  the  evening  was  ruined  by  Jowett  taking  us 
across  the  quad  to  hear  moderate  music  in  the  hid- 
eous Balliol  hall.  Of  all  the  Master's  women 
friends,  I  infinitely  preferred  Mrs.  T.  H.  Green, 
John  Addington  Symonds'  sister.  She  is  among 
the  rare  women  who  have  all  the  qualities  which  in 
moments  of  disillusion  I  deny  to  them. 

I  spent  my  last  week-end  at  Balliol  when 
Jowett's  health  appeared  to  have  completely  re- 
covered. On  the  Monday  morning,  after  his  guests 
had  gone,  I  went  as  usual  into  his  study  to  talk  to 
him.  My  wire  on  receiving  his  death-bed  letter  had 
amused  but  distressed  him;  and  on  my  arrival  he 
pressed  me  to  tell  him  what  it  was  he  had  written 

[127] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

that  had  offended  me.  I  told  him  I  was  not  of- 
fended, only  hurt.  He  asked  me  what  the  differ- 
ence was.  I  wish  I  could  have  given  him  the  answer 
that  my  daughter  Elizabeth  gave  Lord  Grey*  when 
he  asked  her  the  same  question,  walking  in  the  gar- 
den at  Fallodon  on  the  occasion  of  her  first  country- 
house  visit: 

"The  one  touches  your  vanity  and  the  other  your 
heart." 

I  do  not  know  what  I  said,  but  I  told  him  I  was 
quite  unoff  ended  and  without  touchiness,  but  that 
his  letter  had  all  the  faults  of  a  schoolmaster  and  a 
cleric  in  it  and  not  the  love  of  a  friend.  He  listened 
to  me  with  his  usual  patience  and  sweetness  and  ex- 
pressed his  regret. 

On  the  Monday  morning  of  which  I  am  writing, 
and  on  which  we  had  our  last  conversation,  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  that,  as  I  had  spoilt  many  good 
conversations  by  talking  too  much  myself,  I  would 
hold  my  tongue  and  let  the  Master  for  once  make 
the  first  move.  I  had  not  had  much  experience  of 
his  classical  and  devastating  silences  and  had  often 
defended  him  from  the  charge;  but  it  was  time  to 
see  what  happened  if  I  talked  less. 

•viscount  Grey  of  Fallodon. 

[128] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

When  we  got  into  the  room  and  he  had  shut  the 
door,  I  absently  selected  the  only  comfortable  chair 
and  we  sat  down  next  to  each  other.  A  long  and 
quelling  silence  followed  the  lighting  of  my  ciga- 
rette. Feeling  rather  at  a  loose  end,  I  thought  out 
a  few  stage  directions — "here  business  with  hand- 
kerchief, etc." — and  adjusted  the  buckles  on  my 
shoes.  I  looked  at  some  photographs  and  fingered 
a  paper-knife  and  odds  and  ends  on  the  table  near 
me.  The  oppressive  silence  continued.  I  strolled 
to  the  book-shelves  and,  under  cover  of  a  copy  of 
Country  Conversations,  peeped  at  the  Master.  He 
appeared  to  be  quite  unaware  of  my  existence. 

"Nothing  doing,"  said  I  to  myself,  putting  back 
the  book. 

Something  had  switched  him  off  as  if  he  had  been 
the  electric  light. 

At  last,  breaking  the  silence  with  considerable 
impatience,  I  said: 

"Really,  Master,  there  is  very  little  excuse  for 
your  silence !  Surely  you  have  something  to  say  to 
me,  something  to  tell  me;  you  have  had  an  experi- 
ence since  we  talked  to  each  other  that  I  have  never 
had:  you  have  been  near  Death." 

[129] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

JowETT  (not  in  any  way  put  out) :  "I  felt  no 
rapture,  no  bliss."  (Suddenly  looking  at  me  and 
taking  my  hand.)  "My  dear  child,  you  must  be- 
lieve in  God  in  spite  of  what  the  clergy  say." 


[1801 


CHAPTER  III 

FAST  AND  FURIOUS  HUNTING  IN  LEICESTERSHIRE — 
COUNTRY  HOUSE  PARTY  AND  A  NEW  ADMIRER — 
FRIENDSHIP  WITH  LORD  AND  LADY  MANNERS 

MY  friendship  with  Lord  and  Lady  Manners,* 
of  Avon  Tyrrell,  probably  made  more  differ- 
ence to  the  course  of  my  life  than  anything  that 
had  happened  in  it. 

Riding  was  what  I  knew  and  cared  most  about; 
and  I  dreamt  of  High  Leicestershire.  I  had  hunted 
in  Cheshire,  where  you  killed  three  foxes  a  day  and 
found  yourself  either  clattering  among  cottages  and 
clothes-lines,  or  blocked  by  carriages  and  crowds; 
I  knew  the  stiff  plough  and  fine  horses  of  Yorkshire 
and  the  rotten  grass  in  the  Bicester;  I  had  struggled 
over  the  large  fences  and  small  enclosures  of  the 
Grafton  and  been  a  heroine  in  the  select  fields  and 
large  becks  with  the  Burton;  and  the  Beaufort  had 
seen  the  dawn  of  my  fox-hunting;  but  Melton  was 
a  name  which  brought  the  Hon.  Crasher  before  me 

*Avon  Tyrrell,  Christchurch,  Hants.    Lady  Manners  was  a  Miss 
Fane. 

[181] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

and  opened  a  vista  on  my  future  of  all  that  was  fast, 
furious  and  fashionable. 

When  I  was  told  that  I  was  going  to  sit  next  to 
the  Master  of  the  Quorn  at  dinner,  my  excitement 
knew  no  bounds. 

Gordon  Cunard — whose  brother  Bache  owned 
the  famous  hounds  in  Market  Harborough — had 
insisted  on  my  joining  him  at  a  country-house  party 
given  for  a  ball.  On  getting  the  invitation  I  had 
refused,  as  I  hardly  knew  our  hostess — the  pretty 
Mrs.  Famham — but  after  receiving  a  spirited  tele- 
gram from  my  new  admirer — one  of  the  best  men 
to  hounds  in  Leicestershire — I  changed  my  mind. 
In  consequence  of  this  decision  a  double  event  took 
place.  I  fell  in  love  with  Peter  Flower — a  brother 
of  the  late  Lord  Battersea — and  formed  an  attach- 
ment with  a  couple  whose  devotion  and  goodness  to 
me  for  more  than  twenty  years  encouraged  and  em- 
bellished my  glorious  youth. 

Lord  Manners,  or  "Hoppy,"  as  we  called  him, 
was  one  of  the  few  men  I  ever  met  whom  the  word 
"single-minded"  described.  His  sense  of  honour 
was  only  equalled  by  his  sense  of  humour;  and  a 
more  original,  tender,  truthful,  uncynical,  real  being 
never  existed.  He  was  a  fine  sportsman  and  had 
[182] 


^ 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

won  the  Grand  Military  when  he  was  in  the  Gren- 
adiers, riding  one  of  his  own  hunters;  he  was  also 
the  second  gentleman  in  England  to  win  the  Grand 
National  in  1882,  on  a  thoroughbred  called  Seaman, 
who  was  by  no  means  every  one's  horse.  For  other 
people  he  cared  nothing.  "Decidement  je  nfaime 
pas  les  autres/'  he  would  have  said,  to  quote  my 
son-in-law,  Antoine  Bibesco, 

His  wife  often  said  that,  but  for  her,  he  would 
not  have  asked  a  creature  inside  the  house;  be  this 
as  it  may,  no  host  and  hostess  could  have  been  more 
socially  susceptible  or  given  their  guests  a  warmer 
welcome  than  Con  and  Hoppy  Manners. 

What  I  loved  and  admired  in  him  was  his  keen- 
ness and  his  impeccable  unworldliness.  He  was 
perfectly  independent  of  public  opinion  and  as  free 
from  rancour  as  he  was  from  fear,  malice  or 
acerbity.  He  never  said  a  stupid  thing.  Some 
people  would  say  that  this  is  not  a  compliment,  but 
the  amount  of  silly  things  that  I  have  heard  clever 
people  say  makes  me  often  wonder  what  is  left  for 
the  stupid. 

His  wife  was  very  different,  though  quite  as  free 
from  rhetoric. 

Under  a  becalmed  exterior  Con  Manners  was  a 

[133] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

little  brittle  and  found  it  difficult  to  say  she  was 
in  the  wrong;  this  impenitence  caused  some  of  her 
lovers  a  suffering  of  which  she  was  unconscious;  it 
is  a  minor  failing  which  strikes  a  dumb  note  in  me, 
but  which  I  have  since  discovered  is  not  only  com- 
mon, but  almost  universal.  I  often  warned  people 
of  Con's  dangerous  smile  when  I  observed  them 
blundering  along;  but  though  she  was  uneven  in 
her  powers  of  forgiveness,  the  serious  quarrel  of 
her  life  was  made  up  ultimately  without  reserve. 
Lady  Manners  was  clever,  gracious,  and  under- 
standing; she  was  more  worldly,  more  adventurous 
and  less  deprecating  than  her  husband;  people 
meant  a  great  deal  to  her ;  and  the  whole  of  London 
was  at  her  feet,  except  those  lonely  men  and  women 
who  specialise  in  collecting  the  famous  as  men  col- 
lect centipedes. 

To  digress  here,  I  asked  my  friend  Mr.  Birrell 
once  how  the  jiiste  milieu  was  to  be  found — for  an 
enterprising  person — between  running  after  the 
great  men  of  the  day  and  missing  them;  and 
he  said: 

"I  would  advise  you  to  live  among  your  superiors, 
Margot,  but  to  be  of  them." 

Con  was  one  of  the  few  women  of  whom  it  could 
[184] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

be  said  that  she  was  in  an  equal  degree  a  wonderful 
wife,  mother,  sister  and  friend.  Her  charm  of 
manner  and  the  tenderness  of  her  regard  gave  her 
face  beauty  that  was  independent — almost  a  rival 
of  fine  features — and  she  was  a  saint  of  goodness. 

Her  love  of  flowers  made  every  part  of  her  home, 
inside  and  out,  radiant;  and  her  sense  of  humour 
and  love  of  being  entertained  stimulated  the  witty 
and  the  lazy. 

For  nineteen  years  I  watched  her  go  about  her 
daily  duties  with  a  quiet  grace  and  serenity  in- 
finitely restful  to  live  with,  and  when  I  was 
separated  from  her  it  nearly  broke  my  heart.  In 
connection  with  the  love  Con  and  I  had  for  each 
other  I  will  only  add  an  old  French  quotation; 

''Par  grace  infinie  Dieu  les  mist  au  monde  en- 
semble" 

My  dear  friend,  Mrs.  Hamlyn,  was  the  chate- 
laine of  the  famous  Clovelly,  in  Devonshire,  and 
was  Con's  sister.  She  had  the  spirit  of  eternal  youth 
and  was  full  of  breathless  admiration.  I  hardly 
ever  met  any  one  who  derived  so  much  pleasure  and 
surprise  out  of  ordinary  life.  She  was  as  uncritical 
and  tolerant  of  those  she  loved  as  she  was  narrow 
and  vehement  over  those  who  had  unaccountably 

[135] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

offended  her.  She  had  an  ebullient  and  voracious 
sense  of  humour  and  was  baffled  and  eblovie  by 
titled  people,  however  vulgar  and  ridiculous  they 
might  be.  By  this  I  do  not  mean  she  was  a  snob — 
on  the  contrary  she  made  and  kept  friends  among 
the  frumps  and  the  obscure,  to  whom  she  showed 
faithful  hospitahty;  but  she  was  old-fashioned  and 
thought  that  all  duchesses  were  ladies. 

Christine  Hamlyn  was  a  character-part;  but,  if 
the  machinery  was  not  invented  by  which  you  could 
remove  her  prejudices,  no  tank  could  turn  her  from 
her  friends.  It  was  through  the  Souls  and  these 
friends  whom  I  have  endeavoured  to  describe  that 
I  entered  into  a  new  phase  of  my  life. 


[136] 


CHAPTER  IV 

MARGOT   FALLS   IN    LOVE   AGAIN — "hAVOC"    IN   THE 

HUNTING  FIELD ;  A  FALL  AND  A  DUCKING THE 

FAMOUS    MRS.    BO;    UNHEEDED    ADVICE    FROM    A 

RIVAL ^A  lovers'   QUARREL PETER  JUMPS   IN 

THE   WINDOW — THE    AMERICAN   TROTTER AN- 
OTHER    LOVER     INTERVENES PETER     RETURNS 

FROM     INDIA;     ILLUMINATION     FROM     A     DARK 
WOMAN 

r  liHE  first  time  I  evei  saw  Peter  Flower  was  at 
-■■  Ranelagh,  where  he  had  taken  my  sister 
Charty  Ribblesdale  to  watch  a  polo-match.  They 
were  sitting  together  at  an  iron  table,  under  a  cedar 
tree,  eating  ices.  I  was  wearing  a  grey  muslin  dress 
with  a  black  sash  and  a  black  hat,  with  coral  beads 
round  my  throat,  and  heard  him  say  as  I  came  up 
to  them: 

^'Nineteen?  Not  possible!  I  should  have  said 
fifteen!    Is  that  the  one  that  rides  so  well?" 

After  shaking  hands  I  sat  down  and  looked  about 
me. 

I  always  notice  what  men  wear;  and  Peter 
Flower  was  the  best-dressed  man  I  had  ever  seen. 

[137] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  do  not  know  who  could  have  worn  his  clothes 
when  they  were  new;  but  certainly  he  never  did. 
After  his  clothes,  what  I  was  most  struck  by  was 
his  peculiar,  almost  animal  grace,  powerful  sloping 
shoulders,  fascinating  laugh  and  infectious  vitality. 

Laurence  Oliphant  once  said  to  me,  *'I  divide  the 
world  into  life-givers  and  life-takers";  and  1  have 
often  had  reason  to  feel  the  truth  of  this,  being  as 
I  am  acutely  sensitive  to  high  spirits.  On  looking 
back  along  the  gallery  of  my  acquaintance,  I  can 
find  not  more  than  three  or  four  people  as  tenacious 
of  life  as  Peter  was:  Lady  Desborough,  Lady 
Cunard,  my  son  Anthony  and  myself.  There  are 
various  kinds  of  high  spirits:  some  so  crude  and 
rough-tongued  that  they  vitiate  what  they  touch 
and  estrange  every  one  of  sensibility  and  some  so 
insistent  that  they  tire  and  suffocate  you;  but 
Peter's  vitality  revived  and  restored  every  one  he 
came  in  contact  with ;  and,  when  I  said  good-bj^e  to 
him  that  day  at  Ranelagh,  although  I  cannot  re- 
member a  single  sentence  of  any  interest  spoken 
by  him  or  by  me,  my  mind  was  absorbed  in  thinking 
of  when  and  how  I  could  meet  him  again. 

In  the  winter  of  that  same  year  I  went  with  the 
Ribblesdales  to  stay  with  Peter's  brother,  Lord 
[188] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Battersea,  to  have  a  hunt.  I  took  with  me  the  best 
of  hats  and  habits  and  two  leggy  and  faded  hire- 
lings, hoping  to  pick  up  a  mount.  Charty  having 
twisted  her  knee  the  day  after  we  arrived,  this  en- 
abled me  to  ride  the  horse  on  which  Peter  was  to 
have  mounted  her;  and  full  of  spirits  we  all  went 
off  to  the  meet  of  the  Bicester  hounds.  I  had  hardly 
spoken  three  words  to  my  benefactor,  but  Kibbles- 
dale  had  rather  unwisely  told  him  that  I  was  the 
best  rider  to  hounds  in  England. 

At  the  meet  I  examined  my  mounx  closely  while 
the  man  was  lengthening  my  stirrup.  Havoc,  as 
he  was  called,  was  a  dark  chestnut,  16.1,  with  a  coat 
like  the  back  of  a  violin  and  a  spiteful  little  head. 
He  had  an  enormous  bit  on;  and  I  was  glad  to  see 
a  leather  strap  under  the  curb-chain. 

When  I  was  mounted,  Peter  kept  close  to  my  side 
and  said: 

"You're  on  a  topper!  Take  him  where  you  like, 
but  ride  your  own  line." 

To  which  I  replied: 

"Why?  Does  he  rush?  I  had  thought  of  fol- 
lowing you." 

Peter:  "Not  at  all,  but  he  may  pull  you  a  bit,  so 
keep  away  from  the  field;  the  fence  isn't  made  that 

[139] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

he  can't  jump;  and  as  for  water,  he's  a  swallow  I 
I  wish  I  could  say  the  same  of  mine!  We've  got  a 
brook  round  about  here  with  rotten  banks,  it  will 
catch  the  best!  But,  if  we  are  near  each  other,  you 
must  come  alongside  and  go  first  and  mine  will 
very  likely  follow  you.  I  don't  want  to  spend  the 
night  in  that  beastly  brook." 

It  was  a  good  scenting  day  and  we  did  not  take 
long  to  find.  I  stuck  to  Peter  Flower  while  the 
Bicester  hounds  raced  across  the  heavy  grass  to- 
wards a  hairy-looking  ugly  double.  In  spite  of  the 
ironmonger's  shop  in  Havoc's  mouth,  I  had  not  the 
faintest  control  over  him,  so  I  said  to  Peter : 

"You  know,  Mr.  Flower,  I  can't  stop  your 
horse!" 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  charming  smile  and  said : 

"But  why  should  you?  Hounds  are  running!" 

Margot:  "But  I  can't  turn  him!" 

Peter:  "It  doesn't  matter!  They  are  running 
straight.    Hullo!  Lookout!  Look  out  for  Hydy!" 

We  were  going  great  guns.  I  saw  a  man  in  front 
of  me  slowing  up  to  the  double,  so  shouted  at  him : 

"Get  out  of  my  way!  Get  out  of  my  way!" 

I  was  certain  that  at  the  pace  he  was  going  he 
would  take  a  heavy  fall  and  I  should  be  on  the  top 
[140] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

of  him.  While  in  the  act  of  turning  round  to  see 
who  it  was  that  was  shouting,  his  wilHng  horse 
paused  and  T  shot  past  him,  taking  away  his  spur 
in  my  habit  skirt.  I  heard  a  volley  of  oaths  as  I 
jumped  into  the  jungle.  Havoc,  however,  did  not 
like  the  brambles  and,  steadying  himself  as  he 
landed,  arched  with  the  activity  of  a  cat  over  a 
high  rail  on  the  other  side  of  the  double;  I  turned 
round  and  saw  Peter's  horse  close  behind  me  hit 
the  rail  and  peck  heavily  upon  landing,  at  which 
Peter  gave  him  one  down  the  shoulder  and  looked 
furious. 

I  had  no  illusions!  I  was  on  a  horse  that  nothing 
could  stop!  Seeing  a  line  of  willows  in  front  of 
me,  I  shouted  to  Peter  to  come  along,  as  I  thought 
if  the  brook  was  ahead  of  us  I  could  not  possibly 
keep  close  to  him,  going  at  that  pace.  To  my  sur- 
prise and  delight,  as  we  approached  the  willows 
Peter  passed  me  and  the  water  widened  out  in  front 
of  us;  I  saw  by  his  set  face  that  it  was  neck  or 
nothing  with  him.  Havoc  was  going  well  within 
himself,  but  his  stable-companion  was  precipitate 
and  flurried;  and  before  I  knew  what  had  happened 
Peter  was  in  the  middle  of  the  brook  and  I  was 
jumping  over  his  head.    On  landing  T  made  a  large 

[141] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

circle  round  the  field  away  from  hounds,  trying  to 
pull  up ;  and  when  I  could  turn  round  I  found  my- 
self facing  the  brook  again,  with  Peter  dripping 
on  the  bank  nearest  to  me.  Havoc  pricked  his  ears, 
passed  him  like  a  flash  and  jumped  the  brook  again; 
but  the  bank  on  landing  was  boggy  and  while  we 
were  floundering  I  got  a  pull  at  him  by  putting  the 
curb-rein  under  my  pommel  and,  exhausted  and 
distressed,  I  jumped  ofl*.    Peter  burst  out  laughing. 

"We  seem  to  be  separated  for  life,"  he  said.  "Do 
look  at  my  damned  horse  I" 

I  looked  down  the  water  and  saw  the  animal 
standing  knee-deep,  nibbling  grass  and  mud  off  the 
bank  with  perfect  composure. 

Margot:  "I  really  believe  Havoc  would  jump 
this  brook  for  a  third  time  and  then  I  should  be  by 
your  side.  What  luck  that  you  aren't  soaked  to  the 
skin ;  hadn't  I  better  look  out  for  the  second  horse- 
men? Hounds  by  now  will  be  at  the  sea  and  I  con- 
fess I  can't  ride  your  horse :  does  he  always  pull  like 
this?" 

Peter:  "Yes,  he  catches  hold  a  bit,  but  what  do 
you  mean?  You  rode  him  beautifully.  Hullo  1 
What  is  that  spur  doing  in  your  skirt?" 

Margot:  "I  took  it  off  the  man  that  you  call 
[142] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

'Hydy/  who  was  going  so  sticky  at  the  double 
when  we  started." 

Peter:  "Poor  old  Clarendon!  I  advise  you  to 
keep  his  spur,  he'll  never  guess  who  took  it ;  and,  if 
I  know  anything  about  him,  there  will  be  no  love 
lost  between  you  even  if  you  do  return  it  to  him!" 

I  was  longing  for  another  horse,  as  I  could  not 
bear  the  idea  of  going  home.  At  that  moment  a 
single  file  of  second  horse-men  came  in  sight;  and 
Peter's  well-trained  servant,  on  a  thoroughbred 
grey,  rode  up  to  us  at  the  conventional  trot,  Peter 
lit  a  cigar  and,  pointing  to  the  brook,  said  to  his 
man: 

"Go  off  and  get  a  rope  and  hang  that  brute!  Or 
haul  him  out,  will  you?    And  give  me  my  lunch." 

We  were  miles  away  from  any  human  habitation 
and  I  felt  depressed. 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  ride  home  with  your  man," 
said  I,  looking  tentatively  at  Peter. 

"Home!    What  for?"  said  he. 

Margot:  "Are  you  sure  Havoc  is  not  tired?" 

Peter:  "I  wish  to  God  he  was!  But  I  daresay 
this  infernal  Bicester  grass,  which  is  heavier  than 
anything  I  saw  in  Yorkshire,  has  steadied  him  a 
bit ;  you'll  see  he'll  go  far  better  with  you  this  after- 

[143] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

noon.  I'm  awfully  sorry  and  would  put  you  on  my 
second  horse,  but  it  isn't  mine  and  I'm  told  it's  got 
a  bit  of  a  temper;  if  you  go  through  that  gate  we'll 
have  our  lunch  together.  •  .  .  Have  a  ciga- 
rette?" 

I  smiled  and  shook  my  head;  my  mouth  was  as 
dry  as  a  Japanese  toy  and  I  felt  shattered  with 
fatigue.  The  ground  on  which  I  was  standing  was 
deep  and  I  was  afraid  of  walking  in  case  I  should 
leave  my  boots  in  it,  so  I  tapped  the  back  of  Havoc's 
fetlocks  till  I  got  him  stretched  and  with  great  skill 
mounted  myself.  This  filled  Peter  with  admira- 
tion; and,  lifting  his  hat,  he  said: 

"Well!  You  are  the  very  first  woman  I  ever 
saw  mount  herself  without  two  men  and  a  boy  hang- 
ing on  to  the  horse's  head." 

I  rode  towards  the  gate  and  Peter  joined  me  a 
few  minutes  later  on  his  second  horse.  He  praised 
my  riding  and  promised  he  would  mount  me  any 
day  in  the  week  if  I  could  only  get  some  one  to  ask 
me  down  to  Brackley  where  he  kept  his  horses ;  he 
said  the  Grafton  was  the  country  to  hunt  in  and 
that,  though  Tom  Firr,  the  huntsman  of  the  Quorn, 
was  the  greatest  man  in  England,  Frank  Beers  was 
hard  to  beat.  I  felt  pleased  at  lys  admiration  for 
[144] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

my  ridiiig,  but  I  knew  Havoc  had  not  turned  a  hair 
and  that,  if  I  went  on  hunting,  I  should  kill  either 
myself,  Peter  or  some  one  else. 

"Aren't  you  nervous  when  you  see  a  helpless 
woman  riding  one  of  your  horses?"  I  said  to  him. 

Peter:  "No,  I  am  only  afraid  she'll  hurt  my 
horse!  I  take  her  off  pretty  quick,  I  can  tell  you, 
if  I  think  she's  going  to  spoil  my  sale ;  but  I  never 
mount  a  woman.  Your  sister  is  a  magnificent  rider, 
or  I  would  never  have  put  her  on  that  horse.  Now 
come  along  and  with  any  luck  you  will  be  alone  with 
hounds  this  afternoon  and  Havoc  will  be  knocked 
down  at  Tattersalls  for  five  hundred  guineas." 

Maegot:  "You  are  sure  you  want  me  to  go  on?" 

Peter:  "You  think  I  want  you  to  go  home? 
Very  well!    If  you  go     •     .     .     I  go!" 

I  longed  to  have  the  courage  to  say,  "Let  us  both 
go  home,"  but  I  knew  he  would  think  that  I  was 
funking  and  it  was  still  early  in  the  day.  He  looked 
at  me  steadily  and  said: 

"I  will  do  exactly  what  you  like." 

I  looked  at  him,  but  at  that  moment  the  hounds 
came  in  sight  and  my  last  chance  was  gone.  We 
shogged  along  to  the  next  cover,  Havoc  as  mild  as 
milk.    I  was  amazed  at  Peter's  nerve :  if  any  horse 

[145] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

of  mine  had  taken  such  complete  charge  of  its  rider, 
I  should  have  been  in  a  state  of  anguish  till  I  had 
separated  them;  but  he  was  riding  along  talking 
and  laughing  in  front  of  me  in  the  highest  of  spirits. 
This  lack  of  sensitiveness  irritated  me  and  my  heart 
sank.  Before  reaching  the  cover,  Peter  came  up 
to  me  and  suggested  that  we  should  change  Havoc's 
bit.  I  then  perceived  he  was  not  quite  so  happy  as 
I  thought ;  and  this  determined  me  to  stick  it  out.  I 
thanked  him  demurely  and  added,  with  a  slight  and 
smiling  shrug: 

"I  fear  no  bit  can  save  me  to-day,  thank  you." 
At  which  Peter  said  with  visible  irritability: 
"Oh,  for  God's  sake  then  don't  let  us  go  on  I    If 
you  hate  my  horse  I  vote  we  go  no  farther!" 

"What  a  cross  man!"  I  said  to  myself,  seeing  him 
flushed  and  snappy;  but  a  ringing  "Halloa  1" 
brought  our  deliberations  to  an  abrupt  end. 

Havoc  and  I  shot  down  the  road,  passing  the 
blustering  field ;  and,  hopping  over  a  gap,  we  found 
ourselves  close  to  the  hounds,  who  were  running 
hell-for-leather  towards  a  handsome  country  seat 
perched  upon  a  hill.  A  park  is  what  I  hate  most 
out  hunting:  hounds  invariably  lose  the  line,  the 
field  loses  its  way  and  I  lose  my  temper. 
[146] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  looked  round  to  see  if  my  benefactor  was  near 
me,  but  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Eight  or  ten 
hard  riders  were  behind  me ;  they  shouted : 

"Don't  go  into  the  wood!  Turn  to  your  left  I 
Don't  go  into  the  wood!" 

I  saw  a  fancy  gate  of  yellow  polished  oak  in  front 
of  me,  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  grass  rides  in  the 
wood,  and  what  looked  like  lawns  beyond.  I  was 
unable  to  turn  to  the  left  Mdth  my  companions,  but 
plunged  into  the  trees  where  the  hounds  paused: 
not  so  Havoc,  who,  in  spite  of  the  deep  ground,  was 
still  going  great  guns.  A  lady  behind  me,  guessing 
what  had  happened,  left  her  companions  and  man- 
aged somehow  or  other  to  pass  me  in  the  ride ;  and, 
as  I  approached  the  yellow  gate,  she  was  holding  it 
open  for  me.  I  shouted  my  thanks  to  her  and  she 
shouted  back: 

"Get  off  when  you  stop!" 

This  was  my  fixed  determination,  as  I  had  ob- 
served that  Havoc's  tongue  was  over  the  bit  and 
he  was  not  aware  that  any  one  was  on  his  back,  nor 
was  he  the  least  tired  and  no  doubt  would  have 
jumped  the  yellow  gate  with  ease. 

After  leaving  my  saviour  I  was  joined  by  my 
former  companions.     The  hounds  had  picked  up 

[1471 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

again  and  we  left  the  gate,  the  wood  and  the  country 
seat  behind  us.  Still  going  very  strong,  we  all 
turned  into  a  chalk  field  with  a  white  road  sunk 
between  two  high  banks  leading  down  to  a  ford. 
I  kept  on  the  top  of  the  bank,  as  I  was  afraid  of 
splashing  people  in  the  water,  if  not  knocking  them 
down.  Two  men  were  standing  by  the  fence  ahead, 
which  separated  me  from  what  appeared  to  be  a 
river;  and  I  knew  there  must  be  a  considerable 
drop  in  front  of  me.  They  held  their  hands  up  in 
warning  as  I  came  galloping  up;  I  took  my  foot 
out  of  the  stirrup  and  dropping  my  reins  gave  my- 
self up  for  lost,  but  in  spite  of  Havoc  slowing  up 
he  was  going  too  fast  to  stop  or  turn.  He  made  a 
magnificent  effort,  but  I  saw  the  water  twinkling 
below  me ;  and  after  that  I  knew  no  more. 

When  I  came  to,  I  was  lying  on  a  box  bed  in  a 
cottage,  with  Peter  and  the  lady  who  had  held  the 
yellow  gate  kneeling  by  my  side. 

"I  think  you  are  mad  to  put  any  one  on  that 
horse!"  I  heard  her  say  indignantly.  "You  know 
how  often  it  has  changed  hands;  and  you  yourself 
can  hardly  ride  it.'* 

Havoc  had  tried  to  scramble  down  the  bank, 
which  luckily  for  me  had  not  been  immediately 
[148] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

under  the  fence,  but  it  could  not  be  done,  so  we  took 
a  somersault  into  the  brook,  most  alarming  for  the 
people  in  the  ford  to  see.  However,  as  the  water 
was  deep  where  I  landed,  I  was  not  hurt,  but  had 
fainted  from  fear  and  exhaustion. 

Peter's  misery  was  profound ;  ice-white  and  in  an 
agony  of  fear,  he  was  warming  my  feet  with  both  his 
hands  while  I  watched  him  quietly.  I  was  taken 
home  in  a  brougham  by  my  kind  friend,  who  turned 
out  to  be  Mrs.  Bunbury,  a  sister  of  John  Watson, 
the  Master  of  the  Meath  hounds,  and  the  daughter 
of  old  Mr.  Watson,  the  Master  of  the  Carlow  and 
the  finest  rider  to  hounds  in  England. 

This  was  how  Peter  and  I  first  came  really  to 
know  each  other;  and  after  that  it  was  only  a 
question  of  time  when  our  friendship  developed  into 
a  serious  love-aiFair.  I  stayed  with  Mrs.  Bunbury 
in  the  Grafton  country  that  winter  for  several 
weeks  and  was  mounted  by  every  one. 

As  Peter  was  a  kind  of  hero  in  the  hunting  field 
and  had  never  been  known  to  mount  a  woman,  I 
was  the  object  of  much  jealousy.  The  first  scene 
in  my  life  occurred  at  Brackley,  where  he  and  a 
friend  of  his,  called  Hatfield  Harter,  shared  a 
hunting  box  together. 

[149] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

There  was  a  lady  of  charm  and  beauty  in  the 
vicinity  who  went  by  the  name  of  Mrs.  Bo.  They 
said  she  had  gone  well  to  hounds  in  her  youth,  but 
I  had  never  observed  her  jump  a  twig.  She  often 
joined  us  when  Peter  and  I  were  changing  horses 
and  once  or  twice  had  ridden  home  with  us.  Peter 
did  not  appear  to  like  her  much,  but  I  was  too  busy 
to  notice  this  one  way  or  the  other.  One  day  I  said 
to  him  I  thought  he  was  rather  snubby  to  her  and 
added : 

"After  all,  she  must  have  been  a  very  pretty 
woman  when  she  was  young  and  I  don't  think  it's 
nice  of  you  to  show  such  irritation  when  she  joins 


us." 


Peter:  "Do  you  call  her  old?" 

Margot:  "Well,  oldish  I  should  say.  She  must 
be  over  thirty,  isn't  she?" 

Peter:  "Do  you  call  that  old?" 

Margot:  "I  don't  know!  How  old  are  you, 
Peter?" 

Peter:  "I  shan't  tell  you." 

One  day  I  rode  back  from  hunting,  having  got 

wet  to  the  skin.    I  had  left  the  Bunbury  brougham 

in  Peter's  stables  but  I  did  not  like  to  go  back  in 

wet  clothes;  so,  after  seeing  my  horse  comfortably 

[1501 


W.  E.  GLADSTONE,  THE  GREAT  LIBERAL  STATESMAN, 


KEPHEW,  ARTHUR  LYTTLETON, 
TENNANT,  MARGOt's  SISTER 


MARRIED  LAURA 


VISCOUNT  GREY  OF  FALLODOK,  FRIEXD  OF  THK  A9QUITH   FAMILY 
AKD  SECRETARY  OF  STATE   FOR   FOREIGN   AFFAIRS   WHEV 
ENGLAND  SENT  THE   ULTIMATUM  TO 
GERMANY  IN   1914 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

gruelled,  I  walked  up  to  the  charming  lady's  house 
to  borrow  dry  clothes.  She  was  out,  but  her  maid 
gave  me  a  coat  and  skirt,  which — though  much  too 
big — served  my  purpose. 

After  having  tea  with  Peter,  who  was  ill  in  bed, 
I  drove  up  to  thank  the  lady  for  her  clothes.  She 
was  lying  on  a  long,  thickly  pillowed  couch,  smok- 
ing a  cigarette  in  a  boudoir  that  smelt  of  violets. 
She  greeted  me  coldly;  and  I  was  just  going  away 
when  she  threw  her  cigarette  into  the  fire  and,  sud- 
denly sitting  very  erect,  said: 

"Wait !    I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

I  saw  by  the  expression  on  her  face  that  I  had 
no  chance  of  getting  away,  though  I  was  tired  and 
felt  at  a  strange  disadvantage  in  my  flowing  skirts. 

Mrs.  Bo:  "Does  it  not  strike  you  that  going  to 
tea  with  a  man  who  is  in  bed  is  a  thing  no  one  can 
do?" 

Margot:  "Going  to  see  a  man  who  is  ill?  No, 
certainly  not!" 

Mrs.  Bo :  Well,  then  let  me  tell  you  for  your  own 
information  how  it  will  strike  other  people.  I  am 
a  much  older  woman  than  you  and  I  warn  you,  you 
can't  go  on  doing  this  sort  of  thing!    Why  should 

[151] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

you  come  down  here  among  all  of  us  who  arc 
friends  and  make  mischief  and  create  talk?" 

I  felt  chilled  to  the  bone  and,  getting  up,  said: 

"I  think  I  had  better  leave  you  now,  as  I  am  tired 
and  you  are  angry." 

Mrs.  Bo  (standing  up  and  coming  very  close  to 
me) :  "Do  you  not  know  that  I  would  nurse  Peter 
Flower  through  yellow  fever!  But,  though  I  have 
lived  next  door  to  him  these  last  three  years,  I  would 
never  dream  of  doing  what  you  have  done  to-day." 

The  expression  on  her  face  was  so  intense  that  I 
felt  sorry  for  her  and  said  as  gently  as  I  could : 

"I  do  not  see  why  you  shouldn't  1  Especially  if 
you  are  all  such  friends  down  here  as  you  say  you 
are.  However,  every  one  has  a  different  idea  of 
what  is  right  and  wrong.     ...    I  must  go  now  1" 

I  was  determined  not  to  stay  a  moment  longer 
and  walked  to  the  door,  but  she  had  lost  her  head 
and  said  in  a  hard,  bitter  voice : 

"You  say  every  one  has  a  different  idea  of  right 
and  wrong,  but  I  should  say  you  have  none!" 

At  this  I  left  the  room. 

When  I  told  Mrs.  Bunbury  what  had  happened, 
all  she  said  was: 
[152] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"Cat!  She's  jealous!  Before  you  came  down 
here,  Peter  Flower  was  in  love  with  her." 

This  was  a  great  shock  to  me  and  I  determined 
I  would  leave  the  Grafton  country,  as  I  had  already 
been  away  far  too  long  from  my  own  people ;  so  I 
wrote  to  Peter  saying  I  was  sorry  not  to  say  good- 
bye to  him,  but  that  I  had  to  go  home.  The  next 
day  was  Sunday.  I  got  my  usual  love-letter  from 
Peter — ^who,  whether  I  saw  him  or  not,  wrote  daily 
— ^telling  me  that  his  temperature  had  gone  up  again 
and  that  he  would  give  me  his  two  best  horses  on 
Monday,  as  he  was  not  allowed  to  leave  his  room. 
After  we  had  finished  lunch,  Peter  turned  up,  look- 
ing ill  and  furious.  Mrs.  Bunbury  greeted  him 
sweetly  and  said: 

"You  ought  to  be  in  bed,  you  know;  but,  since 
you  are  here,  I'll  leave  Margot  to  look  after  you 
while  Jacky  and  I  go  round  the  stables." 

When  we  were  left  to  ourselves,  Peter,  looking 
at  me,  said: 

"Well!  I've  got  your  letter!  What  is  all  this 
about?  Don't  you  know  there  are  two  horses 
coming  over  from  Ireland  this  week  which  I  want 
you  particularly  to  ride  for  me?" 

I  saw  that  he  was  thoroughly  upset  and  told  him 

[153] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

that  I  was  going  home,  as  I  had  been  already  too 
long  away. 

"Have  your  people  written  to  you?"  he  said. 

Margot:  "They  always  write.     .     .     ." 

Peter  (seeing  the  evasion) :  "What's  wrong?" 

Margot:  "What  do  you  mean?" 

Peter:  "You  know  quite  well  that  no  one  has 
asked  you  to  go  home.  Something  has  happened; 
some  one  has  said  something  to  you;  youVe  been 
put  out.  After  all  it  was  only  yesterday  that  we 
were  discussing  every  meet;  and  you  promised  to 
give  me  a  lurcher.  What  has  happened  since  to 
change  you?" 

Margot:  "Oh,  what  does  it  matter?  I  can  always 
come  down  here  again  later  on." 

Peter:  "How  wanting  in  candour  you  are!  You 
are  not  a  bit  like  what  I  thought  you  were !" 

Margot  (*«;^^%) : '*No.     .     .     .?" 

Peter:  "Not  a  bit!  You  are  a  regular  woman. 
I  thought  differently  of  you  somehow!" 

Margot:  "You  thought  I  was  a  dog-fancier  or 
a  rough-rider,  did  you,  with  a  good  thick  skin?" 

Peter:  "I  fail  to  understand  you!  Are  you  al- 
luding to  the  manners  of  my  horses?" 

Margot:  "No,  to  your  friends." 
[154] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Peter:  "Ah!  Ah!  Nous  y  sommes!  .  .  • 
How  can  you  be  so  childish!  What  did  Mrs.  Bo 
say  to  you?" 

Margot:  "Oh,  spare  me  from  going  into  your 
friends'  affairs!" 

Peter  {flushed  with  temper,  but  trying  to  con- 
trol himself) :  "What  does  it  matter  what  an  old 
woman  says  whose  nose  has  been  put  out  of  joint 
in  the  hunting-field?" 

Margot:  "You  told  me  she  was  young." 

Peter:  "What  an  awful  lie!  You  said  she  was 
pretty  and  I  disagreed  with  you."  Silence.  "What 
did  she  say  to  you?  I  tell  you  she  is  jealous  of  you 
in  the  hunting-field!" 

Margot:  "No,  she's  not;  she's  jealous  of  me  in 
your  bedroom  and  says  I  don't  know  right  from 
wrong." 

Peter  (startled  at  first  and  then  bursting  out 
laughing) :  "There's  nothing  very  original  about 
that!" 

Margot  (indignantly) :  "Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  it's  a  platitude?  And  that  I  don't  know  right 
from  wrong?" 

Peter  (taking  my  hands  and  kissing  them  with 
a  sigh  of  intense  relief) :  "I  wonder!" 

[155] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Margot  {getting  up) :  "Well,  after  that,  noth- 
ing will  induce  me  to  stay  down  here  or  ride  any  of 
your  horses  ever  again!  No  regiment  of  soldiers 
will  keep  me!" 

Peter:  "Really,  darling,  how  can  you  be  so  fool- 
ish !  Who  would  ever  think  it  wrong  to  go  and  see 
a  poor  devil  ill  in  bed!  You  had  to  ride  my  horse 
back  to  its  stable  and  it  was  your  duty  to  come  and 
ask  after  me  and  thank  me  for  all  my  kindness  to 
you  and  the  good  horses  I've  put  you  on!" 

Margot:  "Evidently  in  this  country  I  am  not 
wanted,  Mrs.  Bo  said  so;  and  you  ought  to  have 
warned  me  you  were  in  love  with  her.  You  said  I 
was  not  the  woman  you  thought  I  was :  well,  I  can 
say  the  same  of  you!" 

At  this  Peter  got  up  and  all  his  laughter  dis- 
appeared. 

"Do  you  mean  what  you  say?  Is  this  the  im- 
pression you  got  from  talking  to  Mrs.  Bo?" 

Margot:  "Yes." 

Peter:  "In  that  case  I  will  go  and  see  her  and 
ask  her  which  of  the  two  of  you  is  lying!  If  it's 
you,  you  needn't  bother  yourself  to  leave  this  coun- 
try, for  I  shall  sell  my  horses.  .  •  •  I  wish  to 
God  I  had  never  met  you!" 
[156] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  felt  very  uncomfortable  and  unhappy,  as  in  my 
heart  I  knew  that  Mrs.  Bo  had  never  said  Peter 
was  in  love  with  her;  she  had  not  alluded  to  his 
feelings  for  her  at  all.  I  got  up  to  stop  him  leaving 
the  room  and  put  myself  in  front  of  the  door. 

Margot:  "Really,  why  make  scenes!  There  is 
nothing  so  tiring;  and  you  know  quite  well  you  are 
ill  and  ought  to  go  to  bed.  Is  there  any  object  in 
going  round  the  country  discussing  me?" 

Peter:  "Just  go  away,  will  you?  I'm  ill  and 
want  to  get  off." 

I  did  not  move;  I  saw  he  was  white  with  rage. 
The  idea  of  going  round  the  country  talking  about 
me  was  more  than  he  could  bear;  so  I  said,  trying 
to  mollify  him : 

"If  you  want  to  discuss  me,  I  am  always  willing 
to  listen;  there  is  nothing  I  enjoy  so  much  as  talk- 
ing about  myself." 

It  was  too  late.    All  he  said  to  me  was : 

"Do  you  mind  leaving  that  door?  You  tire  me 
and  it's  getting  dark." 

Margot:  "I  will  let  you  go,  but  promise  me  you 
won't  go  to  Mrs.  Bo  to-day;  or,  if  you  do,  tell  me 
what  you  are  going  to  say  to  her  first." 

Peter:  "You've  never  told  me  yet  what  she  said 

[157] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

to  you,  except  that  I  was  in  love  with  her,  so  why- 
should  I  tell  you  what  I  propose  saying  to  her!  For 
once  you  cannot  have  it  all  your  own  way.  You  are 
so  spoilt  since  you've  been  down  here  that  .  .  ." 
I  flung  the  door  wide  open  and,  before  he  could 
finish  his  sentence,  ran  up  to  my  room. 

•  •••••• 

Peter  was  curiously  upsetting  to  the  feminine 
sense;  he  wanted  to  conceal  it  and  to  expose  it  at 
the  same  time,  under  the  impression  it  might  arouse 
my  jealousy.  He  was  specially  angry  with  me  for 
dancing  with  King  Edward,  then  the  Prince  of 
Wales.  I  told  him  that  if  he  would  learn  to  waltz 
instead  of  prance  I  would  dance  with  him,  but  till 
he  did  I  should  choose  my  own  partners.  Over 
this  we  had  a  great  row ;  and,  after  sitting  out  two 
dances  with  the  Prince,  I  put  on  my  cloak  and 
walked  round  to  40  Grosvenor  Square  without  say- 
ing good  night  to  Peter.  I  was  in  my  dressing- 
gown,  with  my  hair — my  one  claim  to  beauty — 
standing  out  all  round  my  head,  when  I  heard  a 
noise  in  the  street  and,  looking  down,  I  saw  Peter 
standing  on  the  wall  of  our  porch  gazing  across  an 
angle  of  the  area  into  the  open  window  of  our 
library,  contemplating,  I  presumed,  jumping  into 
[158] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

it;  I  raced  downstairs  to  stop  this  dangerous  folly, 
but  I  was  too  late  and,  as  I  opened  the  library- 
door,  he  had  given  a  cat-like  spring,  knocking  a 
flower-pot  down  into  the  area,  and  was  by  my  side. 
I  lit  two  candles  on  the  writing-table  and  scolded 
him  for  his  recklessness.  He  told  me  had  made  a 
great  deal  of  money  by  jumping  from  a  stand  on 
to  tables  and  things  and  once  he  had  won  £500  by 
jumping  on  to  a  mantelpiece  when  the  fire  was 
burning.  As  we  were  talking  I  heard  voices  in 
the  area;  Peter,  with  the  instinct  of  a  burglar,  in- 
stantly lay  fiat  on  the  floor  behind  the  sofa,  his 
head  under  the  valance  of  the  chintz,  and  I  remained 
at  the  writing-table,  smoking  my  cigarette;  this 
was  all  done  in  a  second.  The  door  opened;  I 
looked  round  and  was  blinded  by  the  blaze  of  a 
bull's-eye  lantern.  When  it  was  removed  from  my 
face,  I  saw  two  policemen,  an  inspector  and  my 
father's  servant.  I  got  up  slowly  and,  with  my 
head  in  the  air,  sat  upon  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  block- 
ing the  only  possibility  of  Peter's  full  length  being 
seen. 

Margot  (with  great  dignity) :  "Is  this  a  prac- 
tical joke?" 

Inspector  {coolly) :  "Not  at  all,  madam,  but  it 

[159] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

is  only  right  to  tell  you  a  hansom  cabman  informed 
us  that,  as  he  was  passing  this  house  a  few  minutes 
ago,  he  saw  a  man  jump  into  that  window." 

He  walked  away  from  me  and,  holding  his  lan- 
tern over  the  area,  peered  down  and  saw  the  broken 
flower-pot.  I  knew  lying  was  more  than  useless 
and,  as  the  truth  had  always  served  me  well,  I  said, 
giving  my  father's  servant,  who  looked  sleepy,  a 
heavy  kick  on  the  instep : 

"That  is  quite  true;  a  friend  of  mine  did  jump 
in  at  that  window,  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago; 
but  (looking  down  with  a  sweet  and  modest  smile) 
he  was  not  a  burglar.     .     .     ." 

Henry  Hill  (mi/  father's  servant) :  "How 
often  I've  told  you,  miss,  that,  as  long  as  Master 
Edward  loses  his  latch-keys,  there  is  nothing  to  be 
done  and  something  is  bound  to  happen !  One  day 
he  will  not  only  lose  the  latch-key,  but  his  life." 

Inspector:  "I'm  sorry  to  have  frightened  you, 
madam,  I  will  now  take  down  your  names.    .    .    ." 

Margot  {anxiously) :  "Oh,  I  see,  you  have  to 
report  it  in  the  police  news,  have  you?  Has  the 
cabman  given  you  his  name?  He  ought  to  be  re- 
warded, he  might  have  saved  us  all  I" 

I  felt  that  I  could  have  strangled  the  cabman, 
[160] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

but,  collecting  myself,  took  one  candle  off  the  writ- 
ing-table and,  blowing  the  other  out,  led  the  way  to 
the  library-door,  saying  slowly: 

"Margaret  .  .  .  Emma  .  .  .  Alice  Tennant. 
Do  I  have  to  add  my  occupation?" 

Inspector  (busily  writing  in  a  small  note-book) : 
"No,  thank  you."  {Turning  to  Hill)  "Your  name, 
please." 

My  father's  servant  was  thoroughly  roused  and 
I  regretted  my  kick  when  in  a  voice  of  thunder  he 
said: 

"Henry  Hastings  Appleby  Hill." 

I  felt  quite  sure  that  my  father  would  appear 
over  the  top  of  the  stair  and  then  all  would  be 
over;  but,  by  the  fortune  that  follows  the  brave, 
perfect  silence  reigned  throughout  the  house.  I 
walked  slowly  away,  while  Hill  led  the  three  police- 
men into  the  hall.  When  the  front  door  had  been 
barred  and  bolted,  I  ran  down  the  back  stairs  and 
said,  smiling  brightly : 

"I  shall  tell  my  father  all  about  this!  You  did 
very  well ;  good  night,  Hill." 

When  the  coast  was  clear,  I  returned  to  the 
library  with  my  heart  beating  and  shut  the  door. 
Peter  had  disentangled  himself  from  the  sofa  and 

[161] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

was  taking  fluff  off  his  coat  with  an  air  of  happy 
disengagement;  I  told  him  with  emphasis  that  I 
was  done  for,  that  my  name  would  be  ringing  in 
the  police  news  next  day  and  that  I  was  quite  sure 
by  the  inspector's  face  that  he  knew  exactly  what 
had  happened;  that  all  this  came  from  Peter's  in- 
fernal temper,  idiotic  jealousy  and  complete  want 
of  self-control.  Agitated  and  eloquent,  I  was  good 
for  another  ten  minutes'  abuse ;  but  he  interrupted 
me  by  saying,  in  his  most  caressing  manner: 

"The  inspector  is  all  right,  my  dear!  He  is  a 
friend  of  mine  I  I  wouldn't  have  missed  this  for  the 
whole  world:  you  were  magnificent!  Which  shall 
we  reward,  the  policeman,  the  cabman  or  Hill?" 

Margot:  "Don't  be  ridiculous!  What  do  you 
propose  doing?" 

Peter  ( trying  to  hiss  my  hands  which  I  had  pur^ 
posely  pwt  behind  my  hack) :  "I  propose  having  a 
chat  with  Inspector  Wood  and  then  with  Hastings 
Appleby." 

Margot:  "How  do  you  know  Inspector  Wood, 
as  you  call  him?" 

Peter:  "He  did  a  friend  of  mine  a  very  good 
turn  once." 

Margot:  "What  sort  of  turn?" 
[1621 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Peter:  "Sugar  Candy  insulted  me  at  the  Turf 
and  I  was  knocking  him  into  a  jelly  in  Brick  Street, 
when  Wood  intervened  and  saved  his  life.  I  can 
assure  you  he  would  do  anything  in  the  world  for 
me  and  I'll  make  it  all  right !  He  shall  have  a  hand- 
some present." 

Margot:  "How  ^^Igar!  Having  a  brawl  in 
Brick  Street!  How  did  you  come  to  be  in  the 
East-end?" 

Peter:  "East-end!  Why,  it's  next  to  Down 
Street,  out  of  Piccadilly." 

Margot:  "It's  very  wrong  to  bribe  the  police, 
Peter!" 

Peter:  "I'm  not  going  to  bribe  him,  governess! 
I'm  going  to  give  him  my  Airedale  terrier." 

Margot:  "What!  That  brute  that  killed  the 
lady's  lap-dog?" 

Peter:  "The  very  same!" 

Margot:  "God  help  poor  Wood!" 

Peter  was  so  elated  with  this  shattering  escapade 
that  a  week  after — on  the  occasion  of  another  row, 
in  which  I  pointed  out  that  he  was  the  most  selfish 
man  in  the  world — I  heard  him  whistling  under  my 
bedroom  window  at  midnight.  Afraid  lest  he  should 
wake  my  parents,  I  ran  down  in  my  dressing-gown 

[163] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

to  open  the  front  door,  but  nothing  would  induce 
the  chain  to  move.  It  was  a  newly  acquired  habit 
of  the  servants,  started  by  Henry  Hill  from  the 
night  he  had  barred  out  the  police.  Being  a  hope- 
less mechanic  and  particularly  weak  in  my  fingers, 
I  gave  it  up  and  went  to  the  open  window  in  the 
library.  I  begged  him  to  go  away,  as  nothing  would 
induce  me  to  forgive  him,  and  I  told  him  that  my 
papa  had  only  just  retired  to  bed. 

Peter,  unmoved,  ordered  me  to  take  the  flower- 
pots off  the  window-sill,  or  he  would  knock  them 
down  and  make  a  horrible  noise,  which  would  wake 
the  whole  house.  After  I  had  refused  to  do  this, 
he  said  he  would  very  likely  break  his  neck  when  he 
jumped,  as  clearing  the  pots  would  mean  hitting 
his  head  against  the  window  frame.  Fearing  an 
explosion  of  temper,  I  weakly  removed  the  flower- 
pots and  watched  his  acrobatic  feat  with  delight. 

We  had  not  been  talking  on  the  sofa  for  more 
than  five  minutes  when  I  heard  a  shuffle  of  feet 
outside  the  library-door.  I  got  up  with  lightning 
rapidity  and  put  out  the  two  candles  on  the  writing- 
table  with  the  palms  of  my  hands,  returning  noise- 
lessly to  Peter's  side  on  the  sofa,  where  we  sat  in 
black  darkness.  The  door  opened  and  my  father 
[164] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

came  in  holding  a  bedroom  candle  in  his  hand;  he 
proceeded  to  walk  stealthily  round  the  room,  look- 
ing at  his  pictures.  The  sofa  on  which  we  were 
sitting  was  in  the  window  and  had  nothing  behind 
it  but  the  curtains.  He  held  his  candle  high  and 
close  to  every  picture  in  turn  and,  putting  his  head 
forward,  scanned  them  with  tenderness  and  love. 
I  saw  Peter's  idiotic  hat  and  stick  under  the  Gains- 
borough and  could  not  resist  nudging  him  as  "The 
Ladies  Erne  and  Dillon"  were  slowly  approached. 
A  candle  held  near  one's  face  is  the  most  blinding 
of  all  things  and,  after  inspecting  the  sloping 
shoulders  and  anaemic  features  of  the  Gainsborough 
ladies,  my  father,  quietly  humming  to  himself,  re- 
turned to  his  bed. 

•  •••••• 

Things  did  not  always  go  so  smoothly  with  us. 
One  night  Peter  suggested  that  I  should  walk  away 
with  him  from  the  ball  and  try  an  American  trotter 
which  had  been  lent  to  him  by  a  friend.  As  it  was 
a  glorious  night,  I  thought  it  might  be  rather  fun, 
so  we  walked  down  Grosvenor  Street  into  Park 
Lane;  and  there  stood  the  buggy  under  a  lamp. 
American  trotters  always  appear  to  be  misshapen; 

[165] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

they  are  like  coloured  prints  that  are  not  quite  in 
drawing  and  have  never  attracted  me. 

After  we  had  placed  ourselves  firmly  in  the 
rickety  buggy,  Peter  said  to  the  man  as  he  took  the 
reins : 

"Let  him  go,  please  1" 

And  go  he  did,  with  a  curious  rapid,  swaying 
waddle.  There  was  no  traffic  and  we  turned  into 
the  Edgware  Road  towards  Hendon  at  a  great 
pace,  but  Peter  was  a  bad  driver  and  after  a  little 
time  said  his  arms  ached  and  he  thought  it  was  time 
the  "damned"  horse  was  made  to  stop. 

"I'm  told  the  only  way  to  stop  an  American 
trotter,"  said  he,  "is  to  hit  him  over  the  head." 

At  this  I  took  the  whip  out  of  the  socket  and 
threw  it  into  the  road. 

Peter,  maddened  by  my  action,  shoved  the  reins 
into  my  hands,  saying  he  would  jump  out.  I  did 
not  take  the  smallest  notice  of  this  threat,  but 
slackened  the  reins,  after  which  we  went  quite 
slowly.  I  need  hardly  say  Peter  did  not  jump  out, 
but  suggested  with  severity  that  we  should  go  back 
and  look  for  the  whip. 

This  was  the  last  thing  I  intended  to  do,  so  when 
we  turned  I  leant  back  in  my  seat  and  tugged  at  the 
[166] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

trotter  with  all  my  might,  and  we  flew  home  with- 
out uttering  a  single  word. 

I  was  an  excellent  driver,  but  that  night  had 
taxed  all  my  powers  and,  when  we  pulled  up  at  the 
corner  of  Grosvenor  Square,  I  ached  in  every  limb. 
We  were  not  in  the  habit  of  arriving  together  at 
the  front  door;  and  after  he  had  handed  me  down 
to  the  pavement  I  felt  rather  awkward:  I  had  no 
desire  to  break  the  silence,  but  neither  did  I  want  to 
take  away  Peter's  coat,  which  I  was  wearing,  so  I 
said  tentatively: 

"Shall  I  give  you  your  covert-coat?" 

Peter:  "Don't  be  childish!  How  can  you  walk 
back  to  the  front  door  in  your  ball-dress?  If  any 
one  happened  to  be  looking  out  of  the  window,  what 
would  they  think?" 

This  was  really  more  than  I  could  bear.  I 
wrenched  off  his  coat  and  placing  it  firmly  on  his 
arm,  said: 

"Most  people,  if  they  are  sensible,  are  sound 
asleep  at  this  time  of  the  night,  but  I  thank  you  all 
the  same  for  your  consideration." 

We  turned  testily  away  from  each  other  and  I 
walked  home  alone.  When  I  reached  our  front 
door  my  father  opened  it  and,  seeing  me  in  my 

[167] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

white  tulle  dress,  was  beside  himself  with  rage.  He 
asked  me  if  I  would  kindly  explain  what  I  was 
doing,  walking  in  the  streets  in  my  ball-dress  at  two 
in  the  morning.  I  told  him  exactly  what  had  hap- 
pened and  warned  him  soothingly  never  to  buy  an 
American  trotter;  he  told  me  that  my  reputation 
was  ruined,  that  his  was  also  and  that  my  behaviour 
would  kill  my  mother;  I  put  my  arms  round  his 
neck,  told  him  soothingly  that  I  had  not  really  en  j  oyed 
myself  at  all  and  promised  him  that  I  would  never 
do  it  again.  By  this  time  my  mother  had  come  out  of 
her  bedroom  and  was  leaning  over  the  staircase  in 
her  dressing-gown.   She  said  in  a  pleading  voice : 

"Pray  do  not  agitate  yourself,  Charlie.  You've 
done  a  very  wrong  action,  Margot!  You  really 
ought  to  have  more  consideration  for  your  father: 
no  one  knows  how  impressionable  he  is.  .  .  . 
Please  tell  Mr.  Flower  that  we  do  not  approve  of 
him  at  all!     .     .     ." 

Maegot:  "You  are  absolutely  right,  dear 
mamma,  and  that  is  exactly  what  I  have  said  to  him 
more  than  once.  But  you  need  not  worry,  for  no 
one  saw  us.  Let's  go  to  bed,  darling,  I'm  dog- 
tired  1" 

•  •••••• 

[168] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Peter  was  thoroughly  inconsequent  about  money 
and  a  great  gambler;  he  told  me  one  day  in  sorrow 
that  his  only  chance  of  economising  was  to  sell  his 
horses  and  go  to  India  to  shoot  big  game,  inci- 
dentally escaping  his  creditors. 

When  Peter  went  to  India  I  was  very  unhappy, 
but  to  please  my  people  I  told  them  I  would  say 
good-bye  and  not  write  to  him  for  a  year,  a  promise 
which  was  faithfully  kept. 

While  he  was  away,  a  young  man  of  rank  and 
fortune  fell  in  love  with  me  out  hunting.  He  never 
proposed,  he  only  declared  himself.  I  liked  him 
particularly,  but  his  attention  sat  lightly  on  me; 
this  rather  nettled  him  and  he  told  me  one  day  rid- 
ing home  in  the  dark,  that  he  was  sure  I  must  be 
in  love  with  somebody  else.  I  said  that  it  did  not 
at  all  follow  and  that,  if  he  were  wise  he  would  stop 
talking  about  love  and  go  and  buy  himself  some 
good  horses  for  Leicestershire,  where  I  was  going 
in  a  week  to  hunt  with  Lord  Manners.  We  were 
staying  together  at  Cholmondeley  Castle,  in 
Cheshire,  with  my  beloved  friend,  Winifred  Chol- 
mondeley,* then  Lady  Rocksavage. 

My  new  young  man  took  my  advice  and  went  up 

*The  Marchioness  of  Cholmondeley. 

[169] 


MARXX)T  ASQUITH 

to  London,  promising  he  would  lend  me  "two  of 
the  best  that  money  could  buy"  to  take  to  Melton, 
where  he  proposed  shortly  to  follow  me. 

When  he  arrived  at  Tattersalls  there  were  several 
studs  of  well-known  horses  being  sold:  Jack 
Trotter's,  Sir  William  Eden's  and  Lord  Lons- 
dale's. Among  the  latter  was  a  famous  hunter, 
called  Jack  Madden,  which  had  once  belonged  to 
Peter  Flower;  and  my  friend  determined  he  would 
buy  it  for  me.    Some  one  said  to  him : 

"I  don't  advise  you  to  buy  that  horse,  as  you 
won't  be  able  to  ride  it!" 

(The  fellow  who  related  this  to  me  added,  "As 
you  know.  Miss  Tennant,  this  is  the  only  certain 
way  by  which  you  can  sell  any  horse.") 

Another  man  said: 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,  the  horse  is  all  right; 
when  it  belonged  to  Flower  I  saw  Miss  Margot 
going  like  a  bird  on  it.     .     .     ." 

My  Friend:  "Did  Miss  Tennant  ride  Flower's 
horses?" 

At  this  the  other  fellow  said : 

"Why,  my  dear  man,  where  have  you  lived!  .  .  ." 
•  «•••.. 

Some  months  after  I  had  ridden  Jack  Madden 
[170] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

and  my  own  horses  over  high  Leicestershire,  my 
friend  came  to  see  me  and  asked  me  to  swear  on 
my  Bible  oath  that  I  would  not  give  him  away  over 
a  secret  which  he  intended  to  tell  me. 

After  I  had  taken  my  solemn  oath  he  said: 
"Your  friend  Peter  Flower  in  India  was  going 
to  be  put  in  the  bankruptcy  court  and  turned  out  of 
every  club  in  London;  so  I  went  to  Sam  Lewis  and 
paid  his  debt,  but  I  don't  want  him  to  know  about 
it  and  he  never  need,  unless  you  tell  him." 

M argot:  "What  does  he  owe?  And  whom  does 
he  owe  it  to?" 

My  Friend:  "He  owes  ten  thousand  pounds,  but 
I'm  not  at  liberty  to  tell  you  who  it's  to;  he  is  a 
friend  of  mine  and  a  very  good  fellow.  I  can  assure 
you  that  he  has  waited  longer  than  most  people 
would  for  Flower  to  pay  him  and  I  think  he's  done 
the  right  thing." 

Margot:  "Is  Peter  Flower  a  friend  of  yours?" 

My  Friend:  "I  don't  know  him  by  sight  and 

have  never  spoken  to  him  in  my  life,  but  he's  the 

man  you're  in  love  with  and  that  is  enough  for  me." 

•  •...•• 

When  the  year  was  up  and  Peter — for  all  I  knew 
— was  still  in  India,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that, 

[171] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

come  what  might,  I  would  never,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, renew  my  relations  with  him. 

That  winter  I  was  staying  with  the  Manners, 
as  usual,  and  finding  myself  late  for  a  near  meet  cut 
across  country.  Larking  is  always  a  stupid  thing 
to  do;  horses  that  have  never  put  a  foot  wrong 
generally  refuse  the  smallest  fence  and  rather  than 
upset  them  at  the  beginning  of  the  day  you  end  by 
going  through  the  gate,  which  you  had  better  have 
done  at  first. 

I  had  a  mare  called  Molly  Bawn,  given  to  me  by 
my  fiance,  who  was  the  finest  timber- jumper  in 
Leicestershire,  and,  seeing  the  people  at  the  meet 
watching  me  as  I  approached,  I  could  not  resist,  out 
of  pure  swagger,  jumping  an  enormous  gate.  I 
said  to  myself  how  disgusted  Peter  would  have  been 
at  my  vulgarity!  But  at  the  same  time  it  put  me  in 
good  spirits.  Something,  however,  made  me  turn 
round;  I  saw  a  man  behind  me,  jumping  the  fence 
beside  my  gate;  and  there  was  Peter  Flower!  He 
was  in  tearing  spirits  and  told  me  with  eagerness 
how  completely  he  had  turned  over  a  new  leaf  and 
never  intended  doing  this,  that  or  the  other  again, 
as  far  the  most  wonderful  thing  had  happened  to 
him  that  ever  happened  to  any  one. 
[172] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"I'm  under  a  lucky  star,  Margie!  By  heavens  I 
am!  And  the  joy  of  seeing  you  is  so  great  that  I 
won't  allude  to  the  gate,  or  Molly  Bawn,  or  you,  or 
any  thing  ugly!  Let  us  enjoy  ourselves  for  once; 
and  for  God's  sake  don't  scold  me.  Are  you  glad 
to  see  me?  Let  me  look  at  you !  Which  do  you  love 
best,  Molly  Bawn  or  me ?   Don't  answer  but  listen." 

He  then  proceeded  to  tell  me  how  his  debts  had 
been  paid  by  Sam  Lewis — the  money-lender — 
through  an  unknown  benefactor  and  how  he  had 
begged  Lewis  to  tell  who  it  was,  but  that  he  had 
refused,  having  taken  his  oath  never  to  reveal  the 
name.  My  heart  beat  and  I  said  a  remarkably 
stupid  thing: 

"How  wonderful!  But  you'll  have  to  pay  him 
back,  Peter,  won't  you?" 

Peter:  "Oh,  indeed!  Then  perhaps  you  can  tell 
me  who  it  is.     .     .     ." 

Margot:  "How  can  I?" 

Peter:  "Do  you  know  who  it  is?" 

Margot:  "I  do  not." 

I  felt  the  cock  ought  to  have  crowed,  but  I  said 
nothing;  and  Peter  was  so  busy  greeting  his  friends 
in  the  field  that  I  prayed  he  had  not  observed  my 
guilty  face. 

[173] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Some  days  after  this  there  was  a  race  meeting  at 
Leicester.  Lord  Lonsdale  took  a  special  at  Oak- 
ham for  the  occasion  and  the  Manners,  Peter  and 
I  all  went  to  the  races.  When  I  walked  into  the 
paddock,  I  saw  my  new  friend — the  owner  of  Jack 
Madden — talking  to  the  Prince  of  Wales.  When 
we  joined  them,  the  Prince  suggested  that  we 
should  go  and  see  Mrs.  Langtry's  horse  start,  as  it 
was  a  great  rogue  and  difficult  to  mount. 

As  we  approached  the  Langtry  horse,  the  crowd 
made  way  for  us  and  I  found  my  friend  next  to  me; 
on  his  other  side  was  Peter  Flower  and  then  the 
Prince.  The  horse  had  his  eyes  bandaged  and  one 
of  his  forelegs  was  being  held  by  a  stable-boy. 
When  the  jockey  was  up  and  the  bandage  removed, 
it  jumped  into  the  air  and  gave  an  extended  and 
violent  buck.  I  was  standing  so  near  that  I  felt 
the  draught  of  its  kick  on  my  hair.  At  this  my 
friend  gave  a  slight  scream  and,  putting  his  arm 
round  me,  pulled  me  back  towards  him.  A  miss  is 
as  good  as  a  mile,  so  after  thanking  him  for  his 
protection  I  chatted  cheerfully  to  the  Prince  of 
Wales. 

There  is  nothing  so  tiring  as  racing  and  we  all  sat 
[174] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

in  perfect  silence  going  home  in  the  special  that 
evening. 

Neither  at  dinner  nor  after  had  I  any  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  to  Peter,  but  I  observed  a  singu- 
larly impassive  expression  on  his  face.  The  next 
day — being  Sunday — I  asked  him  to  go  round  the 
stables  with  me  after  church ;  he  refused,  so  I  went 
alone.  After  dinner  I  tried  again  to  talk  to  him, 
but  he  would  not  answer;  he  did  not  look  angry, 
but  he  appeared  to  be  profoundly  sad,  which  de- 
pressed me.  He  told  Hoppy  Manners  he  was  not 
going  to  hunt  that  week  as  he  feared  he  would  have 
to  be  in  London.  My  heart  sank.  We  all  went  to 
our  rooms  early  and  Peter  remained  downstairs 
reading.  As  he  never  read  in  winter  I  knew  there 
was  something  seriously  wrong,  so  I  went  down  in 
my  tea-gown  to  see  him.  It  was  nearly  midnight. 
The  room  was  empty  and  we  were  alone.  He  never 
looked  up. 

Margot:  "Peter,  you've  not  spoken  to  me  once 
since  the  races.    What  can  have  happened?" 

Peter:  "I  would  rather  you  left  me,  please. 
.     .     .     Pray  go  back  to  your  room." 

Margot  {sitting  on  the  sofa  beside  him) :  "Won't 
you  speak  to  me  and  tell  me  all  about  it?" 

[175] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Peter  put  down  his  book,  and  looking  at  me 
steadily,  said  very  slowly: 

"I'd  rather  not  speak  to  a  liar!" 

I  stood  up  as  if  I  had  been  shot  and  said: 

"How  dare  you  say  such  a  thing!" 

Peter:  "You  lied  to  me." 

Margot:  "When?" 

Peter:  "You  know  perfectly  well!  And  you 
are  in  love!  You  know  you  are.  Will  you  deny 
it?" 

"Oh!  it's  this  that  worries  you,  is  it?"  said  I 
sweetly.  "What  would  you  say  if  I  told  you  I  was 
notr 

Peter:  "I  would  say  you  were  lying  again." 

Margot:  "Have  I  ever  lied  to  you,  Peter?" 

Peter:  "How  can  I  tell?  (Shrugging  his 
shoulders)  You  have  lied  twice,  so  I  presume  since 
I've  been  away  you've  got  into  the  habit  of  it." 

Margot:  "Peter!" 

Peter:  "A  man  doesn't  scream  and  put  his  arm 

round  a  woman,  as  D ly  did  at  the  races  to-day, 

unless  he  is  in  love.    Will  you  tell  me  who  paid  my 
debt,  please?" 

Margot:  "No,  I  won't." 

Peter:  "Was  it  D ly?" 

[176] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Margot:  "I  sEan't  tell  you.  I'm  not  Sam  Lewis; 
and,  since  I'm  such  a  liar,  is  it  worth  while  asking 
me  these  stupid  questions?" 

Peter:  "Ah,  Margot,  this  is  the  worst  blow  of 
my  life !  I  see  you  are  deceiving  me.  I  know  who 
paid  my  debt  now." 

Margot:  "Then  why  ask  me?  .  .  ." 

Peter:  "When  I  went  to  India  I  had  never 

spoken  to  D ly  in  my  life.     Why  should  he 

have  paid  my  debts  for  me?  You  had  much  better 
tell  me  the  simple  truth  and  get  it  over:  it's  all 
settled  and  you're  going  to  marry  him." 

Margot:  "Since  I've  got  into  the  way  of  lying, 
you  might  spare  yourself  and  me  these  vulgar 
questions." 

Peter  {seizing  my  hands  in  anguish) :  "Say  you 
aren't  going  to  marry  him  .  .  .  tell  me,  tell 
me  it's  not  true." 

Margot:  "Why  should  I?  He  has  never  asked 
me  to." 

•  •••••• 

After  this  the  question  of  matrimony  was  bound 
to  come  up  between  us.  The  first  time  it  was  talked 
of,  I  was  filled  with  anxiety.  It  seemed  to  put  a 
finish  to  the  radiance  of  our  friendship  and,  worse 

[177] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

than  that,  it  brought  me  up  against  my  father,  who 
had  often  said  to  me: 

"You  will  never  marry  Flower;  you  must  marry 
your  superior." 

Peter  himself,  in  a  subconscious  way,  had  be- 
come aware  of  the  situation.  One  evening,  riding 
home,  he  said: 

"Margie,  do  you  see  that?" 

He  pointed  to  the  spire  of  the  Melton  Church 
and  added: 

"That  is  what  you  are  in  my  life.  I  am  not  worth 
the  button  on  your  boot !" 

To  which  I  replied: 

"I  would  not  say  that,  but  I  cannot  find  goodness 
for  two." 

I  was  profundly  unhappy.  To  live  for  ever  with 
a  man  who  was  incapable  of  loving  any  one  but 
himself  and  me,  who  was  without  any  kind  of  moral 
ambition  and  chronically  indifferent  to  politics  and 
religion,  was  a  nightmare. 

I  said  to  him: 

"I  will  marry  you  if  you  get  some  serious  occu- 
pation, Peter,  but  I  won't  marry  an  idle  man ;  you 
think  of  nothing  but  yourself  and  me." 
[178] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Peter:  "What  in  the  name  of  goodness  would 
you  have  me  think  of?    Geography?" 

M argot:  "You  know  exactly  what  I  mean. 
Your  power  lies  in  love-making,  not  in  loving;  you 
don't  love  any  one  but  yourself." 

At  this,  Peter  moved  away  from  me  as  if  I  had 
struck  him  and  said  in  a  low  tense  voice : 

"I  am  glad  I  did  not  say  that.  I  would  not  care 
to  have  said  such  a  cat-cruel  thing;  but  I  pity  the 
man  who  marries  you!  He  will  think — as  I  did — 
that  you  are  impulsively,  throbbingly  warm  and 
kind  and  gentle;  and  he  will  find  that  he  has  mar- 
ried a  governess  and  a  prig;  and  a  woman  whose 
fire — of  which  she  boasts  so  much — blasts  his  soul." 

I  listened  to  a  Peter  I  had  never  heard  before, 
His  face  frightened  me.  It  indicated  suffering.  I 
put  my  head  against  his  and  said: 

"How  can  I  make  an  honest  man  of  you,  my 
dearest?" 

•  •••••• 

I  was  getting  quite  clever  about  people,  as  the 
Mrs.  Bo  episode  had  taught  me  a  lot. 

A  short  time  after  this  conversation,  I  observed 
a  dark,  good-looking  woman  pursuing  Peter 
Flower  at  every  ball  and  party.    He  told  me  when 

[179] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  teased  him  that  she  failed  to  arrest  his  attention 
and  that,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  flattered  him 
by  my  jealousy,  I  persisted  and  said  that  I  did  not 
know  if  it  was  jealousy  but  that  I  was  convinced 
she  was  a  bad  friend  for  him. 

Peter:  "IVe  always  noticed  you  think  things 
bad  when  they  don't  suit  you,  but  why  should  I 
give  up  my  life  to  you?  What  do  you  give  me  in 
return?  I'm  the  laughing-stock  of  London!  But, 
if  it  is  any  satisfaction  to  you,  I  will  tell  you  I 
don't  care  for  the  black  lady,  as  you  call  her,  and 
I  never  see  her  except  at  parties." 

I  knew  Peter  as  well  as  a  cat  knows  its  way  in 
the  dark  and  I  felt  the  truth  of  his  remark:  what 
did  I  give  him?  But  I  was  not  in  a  humour  to 
argue. 

The  lady  often  asked  me  to  go  and  see  her,  but 
I  shrank  from  it  and  had  never  been  inside  her 
house. 

One  day  I  told  Peter  I  would  meet  him  at  the 
Soane  Collection  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  To  my 
surprise  he  said  he  had  engaged  himself  to  see  his 
sister,  who  had  been  ill,  and  pointed  out  with  a 
laugh  that  my  governessing  was  taking  root.  He 
added: 

[180] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"I  don't  mind  giving  it  up  if  you  can  spend  the 
whole  afternoon  with  me." 

I  told  him  I  would  not  have  him  give  up  going 
to  see  his  sister  for  the  world. 

Finding  myself  at  a  loose  end,  I  thought  I  would 
pay  a  visit  to  the  black  lady,  as  it  was  unworthy  of 
me  to  have  such  a  prejudice  against  some  one  whom 
I  did  not  know.  It  was  a  hot  London  day;  pale 
colours,  thin  stuffs,  naked  throats  and  large  hats 
were  strewn  about  the  parks  and  streets. 

When  I  arrived,  the  lady's  bell  was  answered  by 
a  hall-boy  and,  hearing  the  piano,  I  told  him  he 
need  not  announce  me.  When  I  opened  the  door, 
I  saw  Peter  and  the  dark  lady  sharing  the  same 
seat  in  front  of  the  open  piano.  She  wore  a  black 
satin  sleeveless  tea-gown,  cut  low  at  the  throat, 
with  a  coral  ribbon  round  her  waist,  and  she  had 
stuck  a  white  rose  in  her  rather  dishevelled  Carmen 
hair.  I  stood  still,  startled  by  her  beauty  and 
stunned  by  Peter's  face.  She  got  up,  charmed  to 
see  me,  and  expressed  her  joy  at  the  amazing  luck 
which  had  brought  me  there  that  very  afternoon, 
as  she  had  a  wonderful  Spaniard  coming  to  play  to 
her  after  tea  and  she  had  often  been  told  by  Peter 
how  musical  I  was,  etc.,  etc.    She  hoped  I  was  not 

[181] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

shocked  by  her  appearance,  but  she  has  just  come 
back  from  a  studio  and  it  was  too  hot  to  expect 
people  to  get  into  decent  clothes.  She  was  per- 
fectly at  her  ease  and  more  than  welcoming;  before 
I  could  answer,  she  rallied  Peter  and  said  she 
pleaded  guilty  of  having  lured  him  away  from  the 
path  of  duty  that  afternoon,  ending  with  a  slight 
twinkle : 

"From  what  I'm  told,  Miss  Margot,  you  would 
never  have  done  anything  so  wicked?    .     .     ." 

I  felt  ice  in  my  blood  and  said: 

"You  needn't  believe  that!  I've  lured  him  away 
from  the  path  of  duty  for  the  last  eight  years, 
haven't  I,  Peter?" 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  silence  and  I  looked 
about  for  a  means  of  escape,  but  it  took  me  some 
little  time  to  find  one. 

I  said  good-bye  and  left  the  house. 

When  I  was  alone  I  locked  the  door,  flung  my- 
self on  my  sofa,  and  was  blinded  by  tears.  Peter 
was  right;  he  had  said,  "Why  should  I  give  up  my 
life  to  you?"  Why  indeed  1  And  yet,  after  eight 
years,  this  seemed  a  terrible  ending  to  me. 

"What  do  you  give  me  in  return?"  What  indeed? 
What  claim  had  I  to  his  fidehty?  I  thought  I  was 
[182] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

giving  gold  for  silver,  but  the  dark  lady  would  have 
called  it  copper  for  gold.  Was  she  prepared  to 
give  everything  for  nothing?  Why  should  I  call 
it  nothing?  What  did  I  know  of  Peter's  love  for 
her?  All  I  knew  was  she  had  taught  him  to  lie; 
and  he  must  love  her  very  much  to  do  that :  he  had 
never  lied  to  me  before. 

I  went  to  the  opera  that  night  with  my  father  and 
mother.  Peter  came  into  our  box  in  a  state  of 
intense  misery;  I  could  hardly  look  at  him.  He 
put  his  hand  out  toward  me  under  the  programme 
and  I  took  it. 

At  that  moment  the  servant  brought  me  a  note 
and  asked  me  to  give  her  the  answer.  I  opened  it 
and  this  was  what  I  read: 

"If  you  want  to  do  a  very  kind  thing  come  and 
see  me  after  the  opera  to-night.  Don't  say  no." 

I  showed  it  to  Peter,  and  he  said,  "Go."  It  was 
from  the  dark  lady;  I  asked  him  what  she  wanted 
me  for  and  he  said  she  was  terribly  unhappy. 

"Ah,  Peter,"  said  I,  "what  have  you  done?  .  .  ." 

Peter:  "I  know  .  •  .  it's  quite  true;  but 
I've  broken  it  off  for  ever  with  her." 

Nothing  he  could  have  said  then  would  have 
lightened  my  heart. 

[183] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  scribbled,  "Yes,"  on  the  same  paper  and  gave 
it  back  to  the  girl. 

When  I  said  good  night  to  my  mother  that  night 
after  the  opera,  I  told  her  where  I  was  going. 
Peter  was  standing  in  the  front  hall  and  took  me  in 
a  hansom  to  the  lady's  house,  saying  he  would  wait 
for  me  round  the  corner  while  I  had  my  interview 
with  her. 

It  was  past  midnight  and  I  felt  overpoweringly 
tired.  My  beautiful  rival  opened  the  front  door  to 
me  and  I  followed  her  silently  up  to  her  bedroom. 
She  took  off  my  opera-cloak  and  we  sat  down 
facing  each  other.  The  room  was  large  and  dark 
but  for  a  row  of  candles  on  the  mantel-piece  and 
two  high  church-lights  each  side  of  a  silver  pier- 
glass.  There  was  a  table  near  my  chair  with  odds 
and  ends  on  it  and  a  general  smell  of  scent  and 
flowers.  I  looked  at  her  in  her  blue  satin  night- 
gown and  saw  that  she  had  been  crying. 

"It  is  kind  of  you  to  have  come,"  she  said,  "and 
I  daresay  you  know  why  I  wanted  to  see  you 
to-night." 

Margot:  "No,  I  don't;  I  haven't  the  faintest 
ideal" 

[184] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  Lady  {looking  rather  embarrassed,  but 
after  a  momerifs  paiise) :  "I  want  you  to  tell  me 
about  yourself." 

I  felt  this  to  be  a  wrong  entry:  she  had  sent  for 
me  to  tell  her  about  Peter  Flower  and  not  myself; 
but  why  should  I  tell  her  about  either  of  us?  I 
had  never  spoken  of  my  love-affairs  excepting  to 
my  mother  and  my  three  friends — Con  Manners, 
Frances  Homer,  and  Etty  Desborough — and 
people  had  ceased  speaking  to  me  about  them ;  why 
should  I  sit  up  with  a  stranger  and  discuss  myself 
at  this  time  of  night?  I  said  there  was  nothing  to 
tell.  She  answered  by  saying  she  had  met  so 
many  people  who  cared  for  me  that  she  felt  she 
almost  knew  me,  to  which  I  replied: 

''In  that  case,  why  talk  about  me?" 

The  Lady:  "But  some  people  care  for  both  of 
us." 

Margot  {rather  coldly) :  "I  daresay." 

The  Lady:  "Don't  be  hard,  I  want  to  know  if 
you  love  Peter  Flower.  .  .  .  Do  you  intend 
to  marry  him?" 

The  question  had  come  then :  this  terrible  question 
which  my  mother  had  never  asked  and  which  I  had 

[185] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

always  evaded!  Had  it  got  to  be  answered  now 
.     .     .     and  to  a  stranger? 

With  a  determined  effort  to  control  myself  I 
said: 

"You  mean,  am  I  engaged  to  be  married?" 

The  Lady:  "I  mean  what  I  say;  are  you  going 
to  marry  Peter?" 

Makgot:  "I  have  never  told  him  I  would." 

The  Lady  {very  slowly) :  "Remember,  my  life 
is  bound  up  in  your  answer.     .     .     ." 

Her  words  seemed  to  burn  and  I  felt  a  kind  of 
pity  for  her.  She  was  leaning  foi'ward  with  her 
eyes  fastened  on  mine  and  her  hands  clasped  be- 
tween her  knees. 

"If  you  don't  love  him  enough  to  marry  him, 
why  don't  you  leave  him  alone?"  she  said.  "Why 
do  you  keep  him  bound  to  you?  Why  don't  you 
set  him  free?" 

Makgot:  "He  is  free  to  love  whom  he  likes;  I 
don't  keep  him,  but  I  won't  share  him." 

The  Lady:  "You  don't  love  him,  but  you  want 
to  keep  him;  that  is  pure  selfishness  and  vanity." 

Margot:  "Not  at  all!  I  would  give  him  up 
to-morrow  and  have  told  him  so  a  thousand  times, 
[186] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

if  he  would  marry;  but  he  is  not  in  a  position  to 
marry  any  one." 

The  Lady:  "How  can  you  say  such  a  thing! 
His  debts  have  just  been  paid  by  God  knows  who — 
some  woman,  I  suppose! — and  you  are  rich  your- 
self. What  is  there  to  hinder  you  from  marrying 
him?" 

Margot:  "That  was  not  what  I  was  thinking 
about.  I  don't  believe  you  would  understand  even 
if  I  were  to  explain  it  to  you." 

The  Lady  :  "If  you  were  really  in  love  you  could 
not  be  so  critical  and  censorious." 

Margot:  "Oh,  yes,  I  could!    You  don't  know 


me." 


The  Lady:  "I  love  him  in  a  way  you  would 
never  understand.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world 
I  would  not  do  for  him!  No  pain  I  would  not 
suffer  and  no  sacrifice  I  would  not  make." 

Margot:  "What  could  you  do  for  him  that 
would  help  him?" 

The  Lady:  "I  would  leave  my  husband  and  my 
children  and  go  right  away  with  him." 

I  felt  as  if  she  had  stabbed  me. 

"Leave  your  children!  and  your  husband!"  I 
said.     "But  how  can  ruining  them  and  yourself 

[187] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

help  Peter  Flower?  I  don't  believe  for  a  moment 
he  would  ever  do  anything  so  vile." 

The  T  ady:  "You  think  he  loves  you  too  much 
to  run  away  with  me,  do  you?" 

Margot  (with  indignation) :  "Perhaps  I  hope 
he  cares  too  much  for  you/' 

The  Lady  (not  listening  and  getting  up  ex- 
citedly) :  "What  do  you  know  about  love?  I  have 
had  a  hundred  lovers,  but  Peter  Flower  is  the  only 
man  I  have  ever  really  cared  for;  and  my  life  is 
at  an  end  if  you  will  not  give  him  up." 

Margot:  "There  is  no  question  of  my  giving  him 
up;  he  is  free,  I  tell  you.  .  .  ." 

The  Lady:  "I  tell  you  he  is  not!  He  doesn't 
consider  himself  free,  he  said  as  much  to  me  this 
afternoon  .  .  .  when  he  wanted  to  break  it  all  off." 

Margot:  "What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  then? . . ." 

The  Lady:  "Tell  Peter  you  don't  love  him  in 
the  right  way,  that  you  don't  intend  to  marry  him ; 
and  then  leave  him  alone." 

Margot:  "Do  you  mean  I  am  to  leave  him  to 
you?  .  .  .  Do  you  love  him  in  the  right  way?" 

The  Lady:  "Don't  ask  stupid  questions.  ...  I 
shall  kill  myself  if  he  gives  me  up." 

After  this,  I  felt  there  was  nothing  more  to  be 
[188] 


AN  autobiography; 

said.  I  told  her  that  Peter  had  a  perfect  right  to 
do  what  he  liked  and  that  I  had  neither  the  will  nor 
the  power  to  influence  his  decision;  that  I  was  going 
abroad  with  my  sister  Lucy  to  Italy  and  would  in 
any  case  not  see  him  for  several  weeks ;  but  I  added 
that  all  my  influence  over  him  for  years  had  been 
directed  into  making  him  the  right  sort  of  man  to 
marry  and  that  all  hers  would  of  necessity  lie  in  the 
opposite  direction.  Not  knowing  quite  how  to  say 
good-bye,  I  began  to  finger  my  cloak;  seeing  my 
intention,  she  said: 

"Just  wait  one  moment,  will  you?  I  want  to 
know  if  you  are  as  good  as  Peter  always  tells  me 
you  are;  don't  answer  till  I  see  your  eyes.  ..." 

She  took  two  candles  off  the  chimneypiece  and 
placed  them  on  the  table  near  me,  a  little  in  front 
of  my  face,  and  then  knelt  upon  the  ground;  I 
looked  at  her  wonderful  wild  eyes  and  stretched  out 
my  hands  towards  her. 

"Nonsense!"  I  said.  "I  am  not  in  the  least  good! 
Get  up!  When  I  see  you  kneeling  at  my  feet,  I 
feel  sorry  for  you." 

The  Lady  {getting  up  abruptly/) :  "For  God's 
sake  don't  pity  me!" 

•  ••♦••• 

[189] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Thinking  over  the  situation  in  the  calm  of  my 
room,  I  had  no  quahns  as  to  either  the  elopement 
or  the  suicide,  but  I  felt  a  revulsion  of  feeling  to- 
wards Peter.  His  lack  of  moral  indignation  and 
purpose,  his  intractability  in  all  that  was  serious 
and  his  incapacity  to  improve  had  been  cutting  a 
deep  though  unconscious  division  between  us  for 
years;  and  I  determined  at  whatever  cost,  after 
this,  that  I  would  say  good-bye  to  him. 

A  few  days  later.  Lord  Dufferin  came  to  see 
me  in  Grosvenor  Square. 

"Margot,"  he  said,  "why  don't  you  marry?  You 
are  twenty-seven;  and  life  won't  go  on  treating 
you  so  well  if  you  go  on  treating  it  like  this.  As 
an  old  friend  who  loves  you,  let  me  give  you  one 
word  of  advice.  You  should  marry  in  spite  of  being 
in  love,  but  never  because  of  it." 

Before  I  went  away  to  Italy,  Peter  and  I,  with 
passion-lit  eyes  and  throbbing  hearts,  had  said  good- 
bye to  each  other  for  ever. 

The  relief  of  our  friends  at  our  parting  was  so 
suffocating  that  I  clung  to  the  shelter  of  my  new 
friend,  the  stranger  of  that  House  of  Commons 
dinner. 

[190] 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  ASQUITH  FAMILY  TREE HERBERT  H.  ASQUITH's 

MOTHER — ASQUITH's    FIRST    MARRIAGE;    MEETS 

M ARGOT  TENNANT  FOR  FIRST  TIME ^TALK  TILL 

DAWN  ON  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS'  TERRACE ;  OTHER 

MEETINGS ENGAGEMENT  A  LONDON  SENSATION 

MARRIAGE  AN  EVENT 

MY  husband's  father  was  Joseph  Dixon 
Asquith,  a  cloth-merchant,  in  Morley,  at  that 
time  a  small  town  outside  Leeds.  He  was  a  man  of 
high  character  who  held  Bible  classes  for  young 
men.  He  married  a  daughter  of  William  Willans, 
of  Huddersfield,  who  sprang  of  an  old  Yorkshire 
Puritan  stock. 

He  died  when  he  was  thirty-five,  leaving  four 
children:  William  Willans,  Herbert  Henry,  Emily 
Evelyn  and  Lilian  Josephine.  They  were  brought 
up  by  their  mother,  who  was  a  woman  of  genius. 
I  named  my  only  daughter*  after  Goethe's  mother, 
but  was  glad  when  I  found  out  that  her  grand- 
mother Willans  had  been  called  Elizabeth. 

*Princess  Bibesco. 

[191] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

William  Willans — ^who  is  dead — was  the  eldest 
of  the  family  and  a  clever  little  man.  He  taught  at 
Clifton  College  for  over  thirty  years. 

Lilian  Josephine  died  when  she  was  a  baby;  and 
Evelyn — one  of  the  best  of  women — is  the  only 
near  relation  of  my  husband  still  living. 

My  husband's  mother,  old  Mrs.  Asquith,  I  never 
knew ;  my  friend  Mark  Napier  told  me  that  she  was 
a  brilliantly  clever  woman  but  an  invalid.  She  had 
delicate  lungs,  which  obliged  her  to  live  on  the 
South  coast;  and,  when  her  two  sons  went  to  the 
City  of  London  School,  they  lived  alone  together 
in  lodgings  in  Islington  and  were  both  poor  and  in- 
dustrious. 

Although  Henry's  mother  was  an  invalid  she  had 
a  moral,  religious  and  intellectual  influence  over  her 
family  that  cannot  be  exaggerated.  She  was  a 
profound  reader  and  a  brilliant  talker  and  belonged 
to  what  was  in  those  days  called  orthodox  noncon- 
formity, or  Congregationalists. 

After  my  husband's  first  marriage  he  made 
money  by  writing,  lecturing  and  examining  at  Ox- 
ford. When  he  was  called  to  the  Bar  success  did 
not  come  to  him  at  once. 

He  had  no  rich  patron  and  no  one  to  push  him 
[192] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

forward.  He  had  made  for  himself  a  great  Oxford 
reputation:  he  was  a  fine  scholar  and  lawyer,  but 
socially  was  not  known  by  many  people. 

It  was  said  that  Gladstone  only  promoted  men 
by  seniority  and  never  before  knowing  with  pre- 
cision what  they  were  like,  but  in  my  husband's 
case  it  was  not  so. 

Lord  James  of  Hereford,  then  Sir  Henry  James, 
was  Attorney  General,  overburdened  with  a  large 
private  practice  at  the  Bar;  and,  when  the  great 
Bradlaugh  case  came  on,  in  1883,  it  was  suggested 
to  him  that  a  young  man  living  on  the  same  stair- 
case might  devil  the  Affirmation  Bill  for  him.  This 
was  the  beginning  of  Asquith's  career.  When  Glad- 
stone saw  the  brief  for  his  speech,  he  noted  the  fine 
handwriting  and  asked  who  had  written  it.  Sir 
Henry  James,  the  kindest  and  most  generous  of 
men,  was  delighted  at  Gladstone's  observation  and 
brought  the  young  man  to  him.  From  that  mo- 
ment both  the  Attorney  General  and  the  Prime 
Minister  marked  him  out  for  distinction;  he  rose 
without  any  intermediary  step  of  an  under-secre- 
taryship  from  a  back-bencher  to  a  Cabinet  Minister ; 
and  when  we  married  in  1894  he  was  Home  Secre- 
tary.   In  1890  I  cut  and  kept  out  of  some  news- 

[193] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

papers  this  prophecy,  little  thinking  that  I  would 
marry  one  of  the  "New  English  Party." 

A  New  English  Party 

Amid  all  the  worry  and  turmoil  and  ambition  of 
Irish  politics,  there  is  steadily  growing  up  a  little 
English  party,  of  which  more  will  be  heard  in  the 
days  that  are  to  come.  This  is  a  band  of  philosoph- 
ico-social  Radicals — not  the  old  type  of  laissez- 
faire  politician,  but  quite  otherwise.  In  other 
words,  what  I  may  call  practical  Socialism  has 
caught  on  afresh  with  a  knot  of  clever,  youngish 
members  of  Parliament  who  sit  below  the  gangway 
on  the  Radical  side.  This  little  group  includes 
clever,  learned,  metaphysical  Mr.  Haldane,  one  of 
the  rising  lawyers  of  his  day;  young  Sir  Edward 
Grey,  sincere,  enthusiastic,  with  a  certain  gift  for 
oratory,  and  helped  by  a  beautiful  and  clever  wife ; 
Mr.  Sidney  Buxton,  who  has  perhaps  the  most  dis- 
tinct genius  for  practical  work ;  and  finally,  though 
in  rather  loose  attachment  to  the  rest,  Mr.  Asquith, 
brilliant,  cynical,  cold,  clear,  but  with  his  eye  on  the 
future.  The  dominant  ideas  of  this  little  band  tend 
in  the  direction  of  moderate  Collectivism — i.e.,  of 
municipal  Socialism. 

I  met  my  husband  for  the  first  time  in  1891,  at 
a  dinner  given  by  Peter  Flower's  brother  Cyril.*  I 
had  never  heard  of  him  in  my  life,  which  gives  some 
indication  of  how  I  was  wasting  my  time  on  two 

*The  late  Lord  Battersea. 

[194] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

worlds:  I  do  not  mean  this  and  the  next,  but  th^ 
sporting  and  dramatic.  Melton  in  the  winter  and  the 
Lyceum  in  the  summer.  My  Coquelin  coachings 
and  my  dancing-lessons  had  led  me  to  rehearsals 
both  of  the  ballet  and  the  drama;  and  for  a  short 
time  I  was  at  the  feet  of  Ellen  Terry  and  Irving. 
I  say  "short"  advisedly,  for  then  as  now  I  found 
Bohemian  society  duller  than  any  English  water- 
ing-place. Every  one  has  a  different  conception 
of  HeU  and  few  of  us  connect  it  with  flames;  but 
stage  suppers  are  my  idea  of  Hell  and,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Irving  and  Coquelin,  Ellen  Terry  and 
Sarah  Bernhardt,  I  have  never  met  the  hero  or 
heroine  off  the  stage  that  was  not  ultimately  dull. 
The  dinner  where  I  was  introduced  to  Henry  was 
in  the  House  of  Commons  and  I  sat  next  to  him.  I 
was  tremendously  impressed  by  his  conversation 
and  his  clean  Cromwellian  face.  He  was  different 
from  the  others  and,  although  abominably  dressed, 
had  so  much  personality  that  I  made  up  my  mind 
at  once  that  here  was  a  man  who  could  help  me  and 
would  understand  everything.  It  never  crossed 
my  brain  that  he  was  married,  nor  would  that  have 
mattered;  I  had  always  been  more  anxious  that 
Peter  Flower  should  marry  than  myself,  because 

[195] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

he  was  thirteen  years  older  than  I  was,  but  matri- 
mony was  not  the  austere  purpose  of  either  of  our 
lives. 

After  dinner  we  all  walked  on  the  Terrace  and  I 
was  flattered  to  find  my  new  friend  by  my  side. 
Lord  Battersea  chaffed  me  in  his  noisy,  flamboy- 
ant manner,  trying  to  separate  us;  but  with  tact 
and  determination  this  frontal  attack  was  resisted 
and  my  new  friend  and  I  retired  to  the  darkest  part 
of  the  Terrace,  where,  leaning  over  the  parapet,  we 
gazed  into  the  river  and  talked  far  into  the  night. 

Our  host  and  his  party — thinking  that  I  had  gone 
home  and  that  Mr.  Asquith  had  returned  to  the 
House  when  the  division  bell  rang — had  disap- 
peared ;  and  when  we  finished  our  conversation  the 
Terrace  was  deserted  and  the  sky  light. 

We  met  a  few  days  later  dining  with  Sir  Alger- 
non West — a  very  dear  and  early  friend  of  mine — 
and  after  this  we  saw  each  other  constantly.  I 
found  out  from  something  he  said  to  me  that  he  was 
married  and  lived  at  Hampstead  and  that  his  days 
were  divided  between  1  Paper  Buildings  and  the 
House  of  Commons.  He  told  me  that  he  had  al- 
ways been  a  shy  man  and  in  some  ways  this  is  true 
of  him  even  now;  but  1  am  glad  that  I  did  not 
[196] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

observe  it  at  the  time,  as  shy  people  disconcerted 
me:  I  liked  modesty,  I  pitied  timidity,  but  I  was 
embarrassed  by  shjniess. 

I  cannot  truly  say,  however,  that  the  word  shy 
described  my  husband  at  any  time:  he  was  a  little 
gaiiche  in  movement  and  blushed  when  he  was 
praised,  but  I  have  never  seen  him  nervous  with 
any  one  or  embarrassed  by  any  social  dilemma.  His 
unerring  instinct  into  all  sorts  of  people  and  affairs 
— quite  apart  from  his  intellectual  temperament 
and  learning — and  his  incredible  lack  of  vanity 
struck  me  at  once.  The  art  of  making  every  man 
better  pleased  with  himself  he  had  in  a  high  degree; 
and  he  retains  to  this  day  an  incurable  modesty. 

When  I  discovered  that  he  was  married,  I  asked 
him  to  bring  his  wife  to  dinner,  which  he  did,  and 
directy  I  saw  her  I  said: 

"I  do  hope,  Mrs.  Asquith,  you  have  not  minded 
your  husband  dining  here  without  you,  but  I  rather 
gathered  Hamp stead  was  too  far  away  for  him  to 
get  back  to  you  from  the  House  of  Commons.  You 
must  always  let  me  know  and  come  with  him  when- 
ever it  suits  you." 

•  •••••• 

In  making  this  profound  and  attaching  friend- 

[197] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

ship  with  the  stranger  of  that  House  of  Commons 
dinner,  I  had  placed  myself  in  a  difficult  position 
when  Helen  Asquith  died.  To  be  a  stepwife  and 
a  stepmother  was  unthinkable,  but  at  the  same  time 
the  moment  had  arrived  when  a  decision — involving 
a  great  change  in  my  life — had  become  inevitable. 
I  had  written  to  Peter  Flower  before  we  parted 
every  day  for  nine  years — with  the  exception  of  the 
months  he  had  spent  flying  from  his  creditors  in 
India — and  I  had  prayed  for  him  every  night,  but 
it  had  not  brought  more  than  happiness  to  both  of 
us;  and  when  I  deliberately  said  good-bye  to  him 
I  shut  down  a  page  of  my  life  which,  even  if  I  had 
wished  to,  I  could  never  have  reopened.  When 
Henry  told  me  he  cared  for  me,  that  unstifled  inner 
voice  which  we  all  of  us  hear  more  or  less  indis- 
tinctly told  me  I  would  be  untrue  to  myself  and 
quite  unworthy  of  life  if,  when  such  a  man  came 
knocking  at  the  door,  I  did  not  fling  it  wide  open. 
The  rumour  that  we  were  engaged  to  be  married 
caused  alarm  amounting  to  consternation  in  certain 
circles.  Both  Lord  Rosebery  and  Lord  Randolph 
Churchill,  without  impugning  me  in  any  way,  de- 
plored the  marriage,  nor  were  they  by  any  means 
alone  in  thinking  such  a  union  might  ruin  the  life 
[198] 


HERBERT  HENRY  ASQUITH  AS  HE  WAS  WHEN  HE  RESIGNED  THE 
PREMIERSHIP  TO  LLOYD-QEOROE  DURING  THE  WAB 


RAYMOND   ASQUITH^   SON   OF 
HERBERT   HENRY   ASQUITH  BY 
HIS   FIRST  MARRIAGE.     HE 
WAS   KILLED   IN  BELGIUM 
DURING  THE   WAR 


MAROOT  A8ttUITlI    AND    IIKR  SON,  ANTllOVY,    WllOSK    INFUTF.NCR 
OVEB  HER,  SHE  SAYS  IK    HER  DIARY,  HAS   BF.KN    OREATER 
THAK  THAT  OF  ANY  OTHER    HUMAN    BEING 


I 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

of  a  promising  politician.  Some  of  my  own  friends 
were  equally  apprehensive  from  another  point  of 
view;  to  start  my  new  life  charged  with  a  ready- 
made  family  of  children  brought  up  very  different- 
ly from  myself,  with  a  man  who  played  no  games 
and  cared  for  no  sport,  in  London  instead  of  in  the 
country,  with  no  money  except  what  he  could  make 
at  the  Bar,  was,  they  thought,  taking  too  many 
risks. 

My  Melton  friends  said  it  was  a  terrible  waste 
that  I  was  not  marrying  a  sporting  man  and  told 
me  afterwards  that  they  nearly  signed  a  round- 
robin  to  implore  me  never  to  give  up  hunting,  but 
feared  I  might  think  it  impertinent. 

The  rumour  of  my  engagement  caused  a  sensa- 
tion in  the  East-end  of  London  as  well  as  the  West. 
The  following  was  posted  to  me  by  an  anonymous 
well-wisher: 

At  the  meeting  of  the  "unemployed"  held  on 
Tower  Hill  yesterday  afternoon,  John  E.  Williams, 
the  organiser  appointed  by  the  Social  Democratic 
Federation,  said  that  on  the  previous  day  they  had 
gone  through  the  West-end  squares  and  had  let 
the  "loafers"  living  there  know  that  they  were  alive. 
On  the  previous  evening  he  had  seen  an  announce- 
ment which,  at  first  sight,  had  caused  tears  to  run 

[199] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

down  his  face,  for  he  had  thought  it  read,  "Mr, 
Asquith  going  to  be  murdered."  However,  it 
turned  out  that  Mr.  Asquith  was  going  to  be  mar- 
ried, and  he  accordingly  proposed  that  the  unem- 
ployed, following  the  example  of  the  people  in  the 
West-end,  should  forward  the  right  hon.  gentle- 
man a  congratulatory  message.  He  moved:  "That 
this  mass  meeting  of  the  unemployed  held  on  Tower 
Hill,  hearing  that  Mr.  Asquith  is  about  to  enter  the 
holy  bonds  of  matrimony,  and  knowing  he  has  no 
sympathy  for  the  unemployed,  and  that  he  has 
lately  used  his  position  in  the  House  of  Commons 
to  insult  the  unemployed,  trusts  that  his  partner 
will  be  one  of  the  worst  tartars  it  is  possible  for  a 
man  to  have,  and  that  his  family  troubles  will  com- 
pel him  to  retire  from  political  life,  for  which  he  is 
so  unfit."  The  reading  of  the  resolution  was  fol- 
lowed by  loud  laughter  and  cheers.  Mr.  Crouch 
(National  Union  of  Boot  and  Shoe  Operatives) 
seconded  the  motion,  which  was  supported  by  a 
large  number  of  other  speakers  and  adopted. 

I  was  much  more  afraid  of  spoiling  Henry's  life 
than  my  own,  and  what  with  old  ties  and  bothers, 
and  new  ties  and  stepchildren,  I  deliberated  a  long 
time  before  the  final  fixing  of  my  wedding-day. 

I  had  never  met  any  of  his  children  except  little 

Violet  when  I  became  engaged  and  he  only  took 

me  to  see  them  once  before  we  were  married,  as 

they  lived  in  a  villa  at  Redhill  under  the  charge  of  a 

[200] 


Mr.  Asquith  and  Rls  Fiancee* 
Rarely  has  any  social  event,  says  a  despatcli 
by  the  Heeald'S  Special  Wire,  created  €uch 
v^idespread  interest  as 
the  announcement  of 
the  engagement  d 
Mr.  Asqnitii  to  Miss 
Margot  Teonant,  and 
congratulations  are 
general  and  sincere. 
Probably  no  young 
unmaiTied  woman  has 
ever  before  won  for 
herself  so  remarkable 
a  position  as  Miss 
Tetinant  has  won  in 
the  heart  of  an  unu- 
sitally  brilliant  and 
competitive  society. 
The  circle  in  which 
she  has  been  a  lead* 
ing  spirit  has  been  a 
subject  of  specula- 
tion, envy  and  misunderstanding,  under 
their  ridiculous  name  of  "  Souls,"  for  some  yeara 
past,  but  if  they  have  not  escaped  from  the 
unfortunate  and  inevitable  disadvantage  of  a 
clique,  they  have  at  the  same  time  quickened 
and  stimulated  a  genuine  if  somewhat  dilettante 
interest  in  things  of  mind  as  opposed  to  the 
ordinary  frivolous  interests  of  the  Jhour,  and  for 
this  they  will  be  and  de:?erve  to  be  remembered. 


THE  FlAVCt, 


^NOUNCEMENT  IN  "THE  NEW  YORK  HERALD"  FEBRUARY  1894 
OF  THE  ENGAGEMENT  OF  MAEGOT  TENNANT  AND  HERBERT 
HENRY  ASQUITH 


[201] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

kind  and  careful  governess;  he  never  spoke  of 
them  except  one  day  when,  after  my  asking  him  if 
he  thought  they  would  hate  me  and  cataloguing  my 
grave  imperfections  and  moderate  qualifications  for 
the  part,  he  stopped  me  and  said  that  his  eldest  son, 
Raymond,  was  remarkably  clever  and  would  be 
devoted  to  me,  adding  thoughtfully: 
"I  think — and  hope — he  is  ambitious." 
This  was  a  new  idea  to  me :  we  had  always  been 
told  what  a  wicked  thing  ambition  was ;  but  we  were 
a  fighting  family  of  high  spirits  and  not  temper, 
so  we  had  acquiesced,  without  conforming  to  the 
nursery  dictum.  The  remark  profoundly  im- 
pressed me  and  I  pondered  it  over  in  my  heart.  I 
do  not  think,  by  the  way,  that  it  turned  out  to  be  a 
true  prophecy,  but  Raymond  Asquith  had  such  un- 
usual intellectual  gifts  that  no  one  could  have  con- 
victed him  of  lack  of  ambition.  To  win  without 
work,  to  score  without  an  effort  and  to  delight  with- 
out premeditation  is  given  to  few. 

One  night  after  our  engagement  we  were  dining 
with  Sir  Henry  and  Lady  Campbell-Bannerman. 
While  the  women  were  talking  and  the  men  drink- 
ing, dear  old  Mrs.  Gladstone  and  other  elderly 
ladies  and  political  wives  took  me  on  as  to  the  duties 

[203] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

of  the  spouse  of  a  possible  Prime  Minister;  they 
were  so  eloquent  and  severe  that  at  the  end  of  it 
my  nerves  were  racing  round  like  a  squirrel  in  a 
cage. 

When  Mr.  Gladstone  came  into  the  drawing- 
room  I  felt  depressed  and,  clinging  to  his  arm,  I 
switched  him  into  a  corner  and  said  I  feared  the 
ladies  took  me  for  a  jockey  or  a  ballet-girl,  as  I  had 
been  adjured  to  give  up,  among  other  things,  danc- 
ing, riding  and  acting.  He  patted  my  hand,  said 
he  knew  no  one  better  fitted  to  be  the  wife  of  a  great 
politician  than  myself  and  ended  by  saying  that, 
while  I  was  entitled  to  discard  exaggeration  in  re- 
buke, it  was  a  great  mistake  not  to  take  criticism 
wisely  and  in  a  spirit  which  might  turn  it  to  good 
account. 

I  have  often  thought  of  this  when  I  see  how 
brittle  and  egotistical  people  are  at  the  smallest  dis- 
approbation.   I  never  get  over  my  surprise,  old  as 
I  am,  at  the  surly  moral  manners,  the  lack   of 
humbleness  and  the  colossal  personal  vanity  that 
are  the  bed-rock  of  people's  incapacity  to  take  criti- 
cism well.    There  is  no  greater  test  of  size  than  this; 
but,  judged  by  this  test,  most  of  us  are  dwarfs. 
•  •••••• 

[204] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Disapproving  of  long  engagements  and  wishing 
to  escape  the  cataract  of  advice  by  which  my  friends 
thought  to  secure  both  my  husband's  and  my  own 
matrimonial  bliss,  I  hurried  on  my  marriage.  My 
friends  and  advisers  made  me  unhappy  at  this  time, 
but  fortunately  for  me  Henry  Asquith  is  a  compel- 
ling person  and,  in  spite  of  the  anxiety  of  the 
friends  and  relations,  we  were  married  at  St. 
George's,  Hanover  Square,  on  May  the  10th,  1894. 
I  doubt  if  any  bride  ever  received  so  many  strange 
letters  as  I  did.  There  was  one  which  I  kept  in 
front  of  me  when  I  felt  discouraged.  I  shall  not 
say  who  it  is  from,  as  the  writer  is  alive: 

My  dear  Margot, 

You  are  not  different  to  other  people  except  in 
this  respect — you  have  a  clear,  cold  head,  and  a  hot, 
keen  heart,  and  you  won't  find  everything ;  so 
choose  what  lasts,  and  with  luck  and  with  pluck, 
marrying  as  you  are  from  the  highest  motives,  you 
will  be  repaid.  Asquith  is  far  too  good  for  you. 
He  is  not  conventional,  and  will  give  you  a  great 
deal  of  freedom.  He  worships  you,  and  under- 
stands you,  and  is  bent  on  making  the  best  of  you 
and  the  life  together.  You  are  marrying  a  very 
uncommon  man — not  so  much  intellectually — but 
he  is  uncommon  from  his  Determination,  Reality 
and  concentrated  power  of  love.  Don't  pity  your- 
self— you  would  not  wish  to  have  loved  Peter  less — 

[205] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

though  you  might  wish  you  had  never  seen  liim — 
but  you  must  know  you  have  allowed  too  much  love 
in  your  life,  and  must  bear  the  consequences.  Deep 
down  in  your  heart  you  must  feel  that  you  ought 
to  put  a  stop  to  your  present  life,  and  to  the  tempta- 
tion of  making  people  love  you.  Depend  upon  it 
with  your  rich  and  warm  nature  you  need  not  be 
afraid  of  not  loving  Asquith  intensely.  By  marry- 
ing him  you  wiL  prove  yourself  to  be  a  woman  of 
courage  and  nobility,  instead  of  a  woman  who  is 
talked  about  and  who  is  in  reality  self-indulgent. 
You  are  lucky  after  your  rather  dangerous  life  to 
have  found  such  a  haven  and  should  bless  God 
for  it. 

In  those  days  it  was  less  common  for  people  to 
collect  in  the  streets  to  see  a  wedding.  The  first 
marriage  I  ever  saw  which  collected  a  crowd  was 
Lady  Crewe's,  but  her  father.  Lord  Rosebery,  was 
a  Derby  winner  and  Prime  Minister  and  she  was 
married  in  Westminster  Abbey.  From  Grosvenor 
Square  to  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  is  a  short 
distance,  but  from  our  front  door  to  the  church  the 
pavements  were  blocked  with  excited  and  enthus- 
iastic people. 

An  old  nurse  of  my  sister  Charlotte's,  Jerusha 

Taylor,   told   me   that   a   gentleman   outside    St. 

George's  had  said  to  her,  "I  will  give  you  £10  for 

that  ticket  of  yours!"  and  when  she  refused  he  said, 

[206] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"I  will  give  you  anything  you  like!  I  must  see 
Margot  Tennant  married!''  I  asked  her  what  sort 
of  a  man  he  was.     She  answered, 

"Oh!  he  was  a  real  gentleman,  ma'am!  I  know 
a  gentleman  when  I  see  him ;  he  had  a  gardenia  in 
his  buttonhole,  but  he  didn't  get  my  ticket !" 

Our  register  was  signed  by  four  Prime  Ministers : 
Mr.  Gladstone,  Lord  Rosebery,  Arthur  Balfour 
and  my  husband.  We  spent  the  first  part  of  our 
honeymoon  at  Mells  Park,  Frome,  lent  to  us  by  Sir 
John  and  Lady  Horner,  and  the  second  at  Clovelly 
Court  with  our  friend  and  hostess,  Mrs.  Hamlyn. 


[207] 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  ASQUITH  CHILDREN  BY  THE  FIRST  MARRIAGE — 

MARGOT's  STEPDAUGHTER  VIOLET MEMORY  OF 

THE    FIRST    MRS.    ASQUITH — RAYMOND'S    BRIL- 
LIANT  CAREER — Arthur's   heroism   in   the 

WAR 

T  DO  not  think  if  you  had  ransacked  the  world 
-■•  you  could  have  found  natures  so  opposite  in 
temper,  temperament  and  outlook  as  myself  and  my 
stepchildren  when  I  first  knew  them. 

If  there  was  a  difference  between  the  Tennants 
and  Lytteltons  of  laughter,  there  was  a  difference 
between  the  Tennants  and  Asquiths  of  tears.  Ten- 
nants believed  in  appealing  to  the  hearts  of  men, 
firing  their  imagination  and  penetrating  and  vivify- 
ing their  inmost  lives.  They  had  a  little  loose  love 
to  give  the  whole  world.  The  Asquiths — without 
mental  flurry  and  with  perfect  self-mastery — be- 
lieved in  the  free  application  of  intellect  to  every 
human  emotion;  no  event  could  have  given  height- 
ened expression  to  their  feelings.  Shy,  self-en- 
gaged, critical  and  controversial,  nothing  surprised 
[208] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

them  and  nothing  upset  them.  We  were  as  zealous 
and  vital  as  they  were  detached  and  as  cocky  and 
passionate  as  they  were  modest  and  emotionless. 

They  rarely  looked  at  you  and  never  got  up  when 
any  one  came  into  the  room.  If  you  had  appeared 
downstairs  in  a  ball-dress  or  a  bathing-gown  they 
would  not  have  observed  it  and  would  certainly 
never  have  commented  upon  it  if  they  had. 
Whether  they  were  glowing  with  joy  at  the  sight 
of  you  or  thrilled  at  receiving  a  friend,  their  wel- 
come was  equally  composed.  They  were  devoted 
to  one  another  and  never  quarrelled ;  they  were  sel- 
dom wild  and  never  naughty.  Perfectly  self-con- 
tained, truthful  and  deliberate,  I  never  saw  them 
lose  themselves  in  my  life  and  I  have  hardly  ever 
seen  the  saint  or  hero  that  excited  their  disinterested 
emotion. 

When  I  thought  of  the  storms  of  revolt,  the  rage, 
the  despair,  the  wild  enthusiasms  and  reckless  ad- 
ventures, the  disputes  that  finished  not  merely  with 
fights,  but  with  fists  in  our  nursery  and  schoolroom, 
I  was  stunned  by  the  steadiness  of  the  Asquith  tem- 
per. 

Let  it  not  be  inferred  that  I  am  criticising  them 
as  they  now  are,  or  that  their  attitude  towards  my- 

[209] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

self  was  at  any  time  lacking  in  sympathy.  Blind- 
ness of  heart  does  not  imply  hardness ;  and  expres- 
sion is  a  matter  of  temperament  or  impulse;  but  it 
was  their  attitude  towards  life  that  was  different 
from  my  own.  They  over-valued  brains,  which  was 
a  strange  fault,  as  they  were  all  remarkably  clever. 
Hardly  any  Prime  Minister  has  had  famous  chil- 
dren, but  the  Asquiths  were  all  conspicuous  in  their 
different  ways :  Raymond  and  Violet  the  most  strik- 
ing, Arthur  the  most  capable,  Herbert  a  poet  and 
Cyril  the  shyest  and  the  rarest. 

•  •••••• 

Cys  Asquith,  who  was  the  youngest  of  the  family, 
combined  what  was  best  in  all  of  them  morally  and 
intellectually  and  possessed  what  was  finer  than 
brains. 

He  was  two,  when  his  mother  died,  and  a  clumsy 
ugly  little  boy  with  a  certain  amount  of  graceless 
obstinacy,  with  which  both  Tennants  and  Asquiths 
were  equallv  endowed.  To  the  casual  observer  he 
would  have  appeared  less  like  me  than  any  of  my 
step-family,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  and  I  had 
the  most  in  common;  we  shared  a  certain  spiritual 
foundation  and  moral  aspiration  that  solder  people 
together  through  life. 
[210] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

It  is  not  because  I  took  charge  of  him  at  an  early 
age  that  I  say  he  is  more  my  own  than  the  others, 
but  because,  although  he  did  not  always  agree  with 
me,  he  never  misunderstood  me.  He  said  at  Miir- 
ren  one  day,  when  he  was  seventeen  and  we  had 
been  talking  together  on  life  and  religion: 

"It  must  be  curious  for  you,  Margot,  seeing  all 
of  us  laughing  at  things  that  make  you  cry." 

This  showed  remarkable  insight  for  a  schoolboy. 
When  I  look  at  his  wonderful  face  now  and  think 
of  his  appearance  at  the  time  of  our  marriage,  I  am 
reminded  of  the  Hans  Andersen  toad  with  the 
jewel  in  its  head,  but  the  toad  is  no  longer  there. 

I  have  a  dear  friend  called  Bogie  Harris,*  who 
told  me  that,  at  a  ball  given  by  Con  and  Hoppy 
Manners,  he  had  seen  a  young  man  whose  face  had 
struck  him  so  much  that  he  looked  about  for  some 
one  in  the  room  to  tell  him  who  it  was.  That  young 
man  was  Cyril  Asquith. 

One  night  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  after  I  had 
heard  him  say  his  prayers  he  asked  me  to  read  the 
General  Confession  out  of  his  Prayer  Book  to  him. 
It  was  such  an  unusual  request  that  I  said : 

"Very  well,  darling,  I  will,  but  first  of  all  I  must 

♦Mr.  H.  Harris,  of  Bedford  Square. 

[211] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

read  you   what  I  love  best  in  the  Prayer  Book." 

To  which  he  answered : 

"Oh,  do!    I  should  like  that." 

I  put  a  cushion  behind  my  head  and,  lying  down 
beside  him,  read: 

"Lighten  our  darkness,  we  beseech  Thee,  O 
Lord;  and  by  Thy  great  mercy  defend  us  from  all 
perils  and  dangers  of  this  night,  for  the  love  of 
Thine  only  Son,  our  Saviour  Jesus  Christ.    Amen." 

After  this  I  read  him  the  General  Confession, 
opening,  "We  have  erred  and  strayed  from  Thy 
ways  like  lost  sheep,"  and  ending,  "that  we  may 
hereafter  live  a  godly,  righteous,  and  sober  life." 
When  I  had  finished  I  said  to  him: 

"What  do  you  take  sober  to  mean  here,  dar- 
ling?" 

Cys  (looking  furtively  at  me  with  Ms  little  green 
eyes) :  "It  does  not  mean  drunkenness."  (A  slight 
pause;  then  reflectively) :  "I  should  say  moderate 
living." 

I  told  the  children  one  day  to  collect  some  of 
their  toys  and  that  I  would  take  them  to  the  hos- 
pital, where  they  could  give  them  away  themselves. 
I  purposely  did  not  say  broken  toys;  and  a  few 
days  afterwards  I  was  invited  to  the  nursery.  On 
[212] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

arriving  upstairs  I  saw  that  Cys's  eyes  were  scarlet ; 
and  set  out  in  pathetic  array  round  the  room  was 
a  large  family  of  monkeys  christened  by  him  "the 
Thumblekins."  They  were  what  he  loved  best  in 
the  world.  I  observed  that  they  were  the  only  un- 
broken toys  that  were  brought  to  me;  and  he  was 
eyeing  his  treasures  with  anguish  in  his  soul.  I  was 
so  touched  that  I  could  hardly  speak ;  and,  when  I 
put  my  arms  round  his  neck,  he  burst  into  sobs: 

"May  I  keep  one  monkey  .  .  .  only  one,  Mar- 
got? .. .  Please?  . . .  Please,  Margot? .  . ." 

This  was  the  window  in  his  soul  that  has  never 
been  closed  to  me.  For  many  years  during  a  dis- 
tinguished college  career  he  was  delicate,  but  since 
his  marriage  to  Miss  Ann  Pollock — a  daylight  crea- 
ture of  charm,  beauty  and  goodness — ^he  has  been 
happy  and  strong. 

•  •••••• 

My  stepdaughter  Violet — now  Lady  Bonham 
Carter — though  intensely  feminine,  would  have 
made  a  remarkable  man.  I  do  not  believe  there  is 
any  examination  she  could  not  have  passed  either  at 
a  public  school  or  a  university.  Born  without  shy- 
ness or  trepidation,  from  her  youth  upwards  she 
had  perfect  self-possession  and  patience.    She  loved 

[213] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

dialectics  and  could  put  her  case  logically,  plausibly 
and  eloquently ;  and,  although  quite  as  unemotional 
as  her  brothers,  she  had  more  enterprise  and  indig- 
nation. In  her  youth  she  was  delicate,  and  what 
the  French  call  trh  personelle;  and  this  prevented 
her  going  through  the  mill  of  rivalry  and  criticism 
which  had  been  the  daily  bread  of  my  girlhood. 

She  had  the  same  penetrating  sense  of  humour 
as  her  brother  Raymond  and  quite  as  much  pres- 
ence of  mind  in  retort.  Her  gift  of  expression  was 
amazing  and  her  memory  unrivalled.  My  daughter 
Elizabeth  and  she  were  the  only  girls  except  myself 
that  I  ever  met  who  were  real  politicians,  not  inter- 
ested merely  in  the  personal  side — whether  Mr.  B. 
or  C.  spoke  well  or  was  likely  to  get  promoted — but 
in  the  legislation  and  administration  of  Parliament; 
they  followed  and  knew  what  was  going  on  at  home 
and  abroad  and  enjoyed  friendships  with  most  of 
the  young  and  famous  men  of  the  day.  Violet  Bon- 
ham  Carter  has,  I  think,  a  great  political  future 
in  the  country  if  not  in  the  Commons.  She  is  a  nat- 
ural speaker,  easy,  eloquent,  witty,  short  and  of  im- 
perturbable sang-froid. 

Life  in  the  House  is  neither  healthy,  useful  nor 
appropriate  for  a  woman;  and  the  functions  of  a 
[214]. 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

mother  and  a  member  of  Parliament  are  not  com- 
patible. This  was  one  of  the  reasons  why  my  hus- 
band and  I  were  against  giving  the  franchise  to 
women.  Violet  is  a  real  mother  and  feels  the  prob- 
lem acutely,  but  she  is  a  real  Liberal  also  and,  with 
gifts  as  conspicuous  as  hers,  she  must  inevitably  ex- 
ercise a  wide-spread  political  influence.  Her 
speeches  in  her  father's  election  at  Paisley,  in  Feb- 
ruary of  this  year,  brought  her  before  a  general  as 
well  as  intellectual  audience  from  which  she  can 
never  retire;  and,  whenever  she  appears  on  a  plat- 
form, the  public  shout  from  every  part  of  the  hall 
calling  on  her  to  speak. 

•  •••••• 

Raymond  Asquith  was  born  on  the  6th  of  No- 
vember, 1878,  and  was  killed  fighting  against  the 
Germans  before  his  regiment  had  been  in  action  ten 
minutes,  on  the  15th  of  September,  1916. 

He  was  intellectually  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished young  men  of  his  day  and  beautiful  to  look 
at,  added  to  which  he  was  light  in  hand,  brilliant  in 
answer  and  interested  in  affairs.  When  he  went  to 
Balliol  he  cultivated  a  kind  of  cynicism  which  was 
an  endless  source  of  delight  to  the  young  people 
around  him;  in  a  good-humoured  way  he  made  a 

[215] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

butt  of  God  and  smiled  at  man.  If  he  had  been 
really  keen  about  any  one  thing — law  or  literature 
— ^he  would  have  made  the  world  ring  with  his  name, 
but  he  lacked  temperament  and  a  certain  sort  of 
imagination  and  was  without  ambition  of  any  kind. 

His  education  was  started  by  a  woman  in  a  day- 
school  at  Hampstead;  from  there  he  took  a  Win- 
chester scholarship  and  he  became  a  scholar  of 
Balliol.  At  Oxford  he  went  from  triumph  to  tri- 
umph. He  took  a  first  in  classical  moderations  in 
1899;  first-class  literce  humaniores  in  1901;  first- 
class  jurisprudence  in  1902.  He  won  the  Craven, 
Ireland,  Derby  and  Eldon  scholarships.  He  was 
President  of  the  Union  and  became  a  Fellow  of  All 
Souls  in  1902;  and  after  he  left  Oxford  he  was 
called  to  the  Bar  in  1904. 

In  spite  of  this  record,  a  more  modest  fellow 
about  his  own  achievements  never  lived, 

Raymond  was  charming  and  good-tempered  from 
his  boyhood  and  I  only  remember  him  once  in  his 
life  getting  angry  with  me.  He  had  been  urged 
to  go  into  politics  by  both  his  wife  and  his  father 
and  had  been  invited  by  the  Liberal  Association 
of  a  northern  town  to  become  their  candidate.  He 
was  complaining  about  it  one  day  to  me,  saying 
[216] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

how  dull,  how  stupid,  how  boring  the  average  con- 
stituents of  all  electorates  were;  I  told  him  I 
thought  a  closer  contact  with  common  people  would 
turn  out  not  only  more  interesting  and  delightful 
than  he  imagined,  but  that  it  would  be  the  making 
of  him.  He  flared  up  at  once  and  made  me  appear 
infinitely  ridiculous,  but  being  on  sure  ground  I 
listened  with  amusement  and  indiiFerence ;  the  dis- 
cussion ended  amicably,  neither  of  us  having  de- 
viated by  a  hair's  breath  from  our  original  posi- 
tions. He  and  I  seldom  got  on  each  other's  nerves, 
though  two  more  diff'erent  beings  never  lived.  His 
arctic  analysis  of  what  he  looked  upon  as  "cant" 
always  stirred  his  listeners  to  a  high  pitch  of  en- 
thusiasm. 

One  day  when  he  was  at  home  for  his  holidays 
and  we  were  all  having  tea  together,  to  amuse  the 
children  I  began  asking  riddles.  I  told  them  that  I 
had  only  guessed  one  in  my  life,  but  it  had  taken 
me  three  days.  They  asked  me  what  it  was,  and  I 
said: 

"What  is  it  that  God  has  never  seen,  that  kings 
see  seldom  and  that  we  see  every  day?" 

Raymond  instantly  answered: 

"A  joke," 

[217] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  felt  that  the  real  answer,  which  was  "an  equal," 
was  very  tepid  after  this. 

In  1907  he  married,  from  10  Downing  Street, 
Katherine  Horner,  a  beautiful  creature  of  character 
and  intellect,  as  lacking  in  fire  and  incense  as  him- 
self. Their  devotion  to  each  other  and  happiness 
was  a  perpetual  joy  to  me,  as  I  felt  that  in  some 
ways  I  had  contributed  to  it.  Katherine  was  the 
daughter  of  Laura's  greatest  friend,  Frances  Hor- 
ner, and  he  met  her  through  me. 

Raymond  found  in  both  his  mother-in-law  and 
Sir  John  Horner  friends  capable  of  appreciating 
his  fine  flavour.  He  wrote  with  ease  and  brilliance 
both  prose  and  poetry.  I  will  quote  two  of  his 
poems : 

In  Praise  of  Young  Girls 

Attend,  my  Muse,  and,  if  you  can,  approve 
While  I  proclaim  the  "speeding  up"  of  Love; 
For  Love  and  Commerce  hold  a  common  creed— 
The  scale  of  business  varies  with  the  speed; 
For  Queen  of  Beauty  or  for  Sausage  King 
The  Customer  is  always  on  the  wing — 
Then  praise  the  nymph  who  regularly  earns 
Small  profits  (if  you  please)  but  quick  returns. 
Our  modish  Venus  is  a  bustling  minx, 
But  who  can  spare  the  time  to  woo  a  Sphinx? 
When  Mona  Lisa  posed  with  rustic  guile 
[218] 


! 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  stale  enigma  of  her  simple  smile, 

Her  leisure  lovers  raised  a  pious  cheer 

While  the  slow  mischief  crept  from  ear  to  ear. 

Poor  listless  Lombard,  you  would  ne'er  engage 

The  brisker  beaux  of  our  mercurial  age 

Whose  lively  mettle  can  as  easy  brook 

An  epic  poem  as  a  lingering  look — 

Our  modern  maiden  smears  the  twig  with  lime 

For  twice  as  many  hearts  in  half  the  time. 

Long  ere  the  circle  of  that  staid  grimace 

Has  wheeled  your  weary  dimples  into  place. 

Our  little  Chloe  (mark  the  nimble  fiend  1) 

Has  raised  a  laugh  against  her  bosom  friend. 

Melted  a  marquis,  mollified  a  Jew, 

Kissed  every  member  of  the  Eton  crew. 

Ogled  a  Bishop,  quizzed  an  aged  peer. 

Has  danced  a  Tango  and  has  dropped  a  tear. 

Fresh  from  the  schoolroom,  pink  and  plump  and  pert, 

Bedizened,  bouncing,  artful  and  alert, 

No  victim  she  of  vapours  and  of  moods 

Though  the  sky  falls  she's  "ready  with  the  goods" — 

Will  suit  each  client,  tickle  every  taste 

Polite  or  gothic,  libertine  or  chaste. 

Supply  a  waspish  tongue,  a  waspish  waist, 

Astarte's  breast  or  Atalanta's  leg. 

Love  ready-made  or  glamour  off  the  peg — 

Do  you  prefer  "a  thing  of  dew  and  air"? 

Or  is  your  type  Poppsea  or  Polaire? 

The  crystal  casket  of  a  maiden's  dreams, 

Or  the  last  fancy  in  cosmetic  creams? 

The  dark  and  tender  or  the  fierce  and  bright. 

Youth's  rosy  blush  or  Passion's  pearly  bite? 

You  hardly  know  perhaps;  but  Chloe  knows, 

[219] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

And  pours  you  out  the  necessary  dose. 
Meticulously  measuring  to  scale, 
The  cup  of  Circe  or  the  Holy  Grail — 
An  actress  she  at  home  in  every  role, 
Can  flout  or  flatter,  bully  or  cajole, 
And  on  occasion  by  a  stretch  of  art 
Can  even  speak  the  language  of  the  heart. 
Can  lisp  and  sigh  and  make  confused  replies, 
With  baby  lips  and  complicated  eyes, 
Indifferently  apt  to  weep  or  wink, 
Primly  pursue,  provocatively  shrink, 
Brazen  or  bashful,  as  the  case  require, 
Coax  the  faint  baron,  curb  the  bold  esquire. 
Deride  restraint,  but  deprecate  desire, 
Unbridled  yet  unloving,  loose  but  limp. 
Voluptuary,  virgin,  prude  and  pimp. 

Lines  to  a  young  Viscount,  who  died  at  Ox- 
ford, ON  THE  Morrow  of  a  Bump  Supper  (by  the 
President  of  Ms  College) 

Dear  Viscount,  in  whose  ancient  blood 
The  blueness  of  the  bird  of  March, 
The  vermeil  of  the  tufted  larch, 

Are  fused  in  one  magenta  flood. 

Dear  Viscount — ah!  to  me  how  dear, 
Who  even  in  thy  frolic  mood 
Discerned  (or  sometimes  thought  I  could) 

The  pure  proud  purpose  of  a  peer! 

So  on  the  last  sad  night  of  all 
Erect  among  the  reeling  rout 

[220] 


4 

I 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

You  beat  your  tangled  music  out 
Lofty,  aloof,  viscontial. 

You  struck  a  bootbath  with  a  can, 

And  with  the  can  you  struck  the  bath, 
There  on  the  yellow  gravel  path. 

As  gentleman  to  gentleman. 

We  met,  we  stood,  we  faced,  we  talked 
While  those  of  baser  birth  withdrew; 
I  told  you  of  an  Earl  I  knew ; 

You  said  you  thought  the  wine  was  corked ; 

And  so  we  parted — on  my  lips 

A  light  farewell,  but  in  my  soul 
The  image  of  a  perfect  whole, 

A  Viscount  to  the  finger  tips 

An  image — Yes;  but  thou  art  gone; 
For  nature  red  in  tooth  and  claw 
Subsumes  under  an  equal  law 

Viscount  and  Iguanodon. 

Yet  we  who  know  the  Larger  Love, 

Which  separates  the  sheep  and  goats 
And  segregates  Scolecobrots,* 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove, 

Deem  that  in  His  mysterious  Day 

God  puts  the  Peers  upon  His  right. 
And  hides  the  poor  in  endless  night. 

For  thou,  my  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

•A  word  from  the  Greek  Testament  meaning  people  who  are  eaten 
by  worms. 

[221] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

It  is  a  commonplace  to  say  after  a  man  is  dead 
that  he  could  have  done  anything  he  liked  in  life: 
it  is  nearly  always  exaggerated;  but  of  Raymond 
Asquith  the  phrase  would  have  been  true. 

His  oldest  friend  was  Harold  Baker,*  a  man 
whose  academic  career  was  as  fine  as  his  own  and 
whose  changeless  affection  and  intimacy  we  have 
long  valued;  but  Raymond  had  many  friends  as 
well  as  admirers.  His  death  was  the  first  great  sor- 
row in  my  stepchildren's  lives  and  an  anguish  to  his 
father  and  me.  The  news  of  it  came  as  a  terrible 
shock  to  every  one.  My  husband's  natural  pride 
and  interest  in  him  had  always  been  intense  and  we 
were  never  tired  of  discussing  him  when  we  were 
alone:  his  personal  charm  and  wit,  his  little  faults 
and  above  all  the  success  which  so  certainly  awaited 
him.  Henry's  grief  darkened  the  waters  in  Down- 
ing Street  at  a  time  when,  had  they  been  clear,  cer- 
tain events  could  never  have  taken  place. 

When  Raymond  was  dying  on  the  battle-field  he 
gave  the  doctor  his  flask  to  give  to  his  father ;  it  was 
placed  by  the  side  of  his  bed  and  never  moved  till 
we  left  Whitehall. 

I  had  not  realised  before  how  powerless  a  step- 

•The  Rt.  Hon.  Harold  Baker. 

[222] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

wife  is  when  her  husband  is  mourning  the  death  of 
his  child;  and  not  for  the  first  time  I  profoundly 
wished  that  Raymond  had  been  my  son. 

Among  the  many  letters  we  received,  this  one 
from  Sir  Edward  Grey,  the  present  Lord  Grey  of 
Fallodon,  gave  my  husband  the  most  comfort: 

33  EccLESTON  Square, 
S.W. 
Sept.  18,  1916. 
My  dear  Asquith, 

A  generation  has  passed  since  Raymond's 
mother  died  and  the  years  that  have  gone  make  me 
feel  for  and  with  you  even  more  than  I  would  then. 
Raymond  has  had  a  brilliant  and  unblemished  life ; 
he  chose  with  courage  the  heroic  part  in  this  war  and 
he  has  died  as  a  hero. 

If  this  life  be  all,  it  matters  not  whether  its  years 
be  few  or  many,  but  if  it  be  not  all,  then  Raymond's 
life  is  part  of  something  that  is  not  made  less  by  his 
death,  but  is  made  greater  and  ennobled  by  the 
quality  and  merit  of  his  life  and  death. 

I  would  fain  believe  that  those  who  die  do  not 
suffer  in  the  separation  from  those  they  love  here ; 
that  time  is  not  to  them  what  it  is  to  us,  and  that  to 
them  the  years  of  separation  be  they  few  or  many 
will  be  but  as  yesterday. 

If  so  then  only  for  us,  who  are  left  here,  is  the 
pain  of  suffering  and  the  weariness  of  waiting  and 

[223] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

enduring;  the  one  beloved  is  spared  that.  There  is 
some  comfort  in  thinking  that  it  is  we,  not  the  loved 
one,  that  have  the  harder  part. 

I  grieve  especially  for  Raymond's  wife,  whose 
suffering  I  fear  must  be  what  is  unbearable.  I  hope 
the  knowledge  of  how  the  feelings  of  your  friends 
and  the  whole  nation,  and  not  of  this  nation  only, 
for  you  is  quickened  and  goes  out  to  you  will  help 
you  to  continue  the  public  work,  which  is  now  more 
than  ever  necessary,  and  will  give  you  strength. 
Your  courage  I  know  never  fails. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Edward  Grey. 

Raymond  Asquith  was  the  bravest  of  the  brave, 
nor  did  he  ever  complain  of  anything  that  fell  to  his 
lot  while  he  was  soldiering. 

It  might  have  been  written  of  him: 

He  died 
As  one  that  had  been  studied  in  his  death 
To  throw  away  the  dearest  thing  he  own*d. 
As  'twere  a  careless  trifle. 

— Macbeth,  Act  I.,  sciv. 


Our  second  son,  Herbert,  began  his  career  as  a 

lawyer.     He  had  a  sweet  and  gentle  nature  and 

much  originality.     He  was  a  poet  and  wrote  the 

following  some  years  before  the  Great  War  of 

[224] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

1914,  through  which  he  served  from  the  first  day 
to  the  last: 

The  Volunteer* 

Here  lies  a  clerk  who  half  his  life  had  spent 
Toiling  at  ledgers  in  a  city  grey. 
Thinking  that  so  his  days  would  drift  away 
With  no  lance  broken  in  life's  tournament ; 
Yet  ever  'twixt  the  book  and  his  bright  eyes 
The  gleaming  eagles  of  the  legions  came, 
And  horsemen,  charging  under  phantom  skies, 
Went  thundering  past  beneath  the  oriflamme. 

And  now  those  waiting  dreams  are  satisfied. 
From  twilight  to  the  halls  of  dawn  he  went; 
His  lance  is  broken — but  he  lies  content 
With  that  high  hour,  he  wants  no  recompense, 
Who  found  his  battle  in  the  last  resort. 
Nor  needs  he  any  hearse  to  bear  him  hence. 
Who  goes  to  join  the  men  at  Agincourt. 

He  wrote  this  when  he  was  in  Flanders  in  the 
war: 

The  Fallen  Spiee* 

(A  Flemish  Village) 

That  spire  is  gone  that  slept  for  centuries. 

Mirrored  among  the  lilies,  calm  and  low; 

And  now  the  water  holds  but  empty  skies 

Through  which  the  rivers  of  the  thunder  flow-. 

•Reprinted  from  The  Vohmteer  and  other  Poems,  by  kind  permls* 
sion  of  Messrs.  Sidgwick  &  Jackson. 

[225] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

The  church  lies  broken  near  the  fallen  spire, 

For  here,  among  these  old  and  human  things. 

Death  sweeps  along  the  street  with  feet  of  fire. 
And  goes  upon  his  way  with  moaning  wings. 

On  pavements  by  the  kneeling  herdsmen  worn 
The  drifting  fleeces  of  the  shells  are  rolled; 

Above  the  Saints  a  village  Christ  forlorn. 

Wounded  again,  looks  down  upon  His  fold. 

And  silence  follows  fast:  no  evening  peace. 

But  leaden  stillness,  when  the  thunder  wanes. 

Haunting  the  slender  branches  of  the  trees, 
And  settling  low  upon  the  listless  plains. 

"Beb,"  as  we  called  him,  married  Lady  Cynthia 
Charteris,  a  lovely  niece  of  Lady  de  Vesci  and 
daughter  of  another  beloved  and  interesting  friend 
of  mine,  the  present  Countess  of  Wemyss. 

Our  third  son,  Arthur  Asquith,  was  one  of  the 
great  soldiers  of  the  war.  He  married  Betty,  the 
daughter  of  my  greatest  friend.  Lady  Manners,  a 
woman  who  has  never  failed  me  in  affection  and 
loyalty. 

Arthur  Asquith  joined  the  Royal  Naval  Division 
on  its  formation  in  September,  1914,  and  was  at- 
tached at  first  to  the  "Anson,"  and  during  the 
greater  part  of  his  service  to  the  "Hood**  Battalion. 
[226] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

In  the  early  days  of  October,  1914,  he  took  part  in 
the  operations  at  Antwerp  and,  after  further  train- 
ing at  home  in  the  camp  at  Blandford,  went  in  Feb- 
ruary, 1915,  with  his  battalion  to  the  Dardanelles, 
where  they  formed  part  of  the  Second  Naval  Bri- 
gade. He  was  in  all  the  fighting  on  the  Gallipoli 
peninsula  and  was  wounded,  but  returned  to  duty 
and  was  one  of  the  last  to  embark  on  the  final  evacu- 
ation of  Helles,  in  January,  1916. 

In  the  following  May  the  Naval  Division  joined 
the  army  in  France,  becoming  the  63rd  Division, 
and  the  "Hood"  Battalion  (now  commanded  by 
Commander  Freyberg,  V.  C.)  formed  part  of  the 
189th  Brigade. 

In  the  Battle  of  the  Ancre  (February,  1917) 
Arthur  Asquith  was  severely  wounded  and  was 
awarded  the  D.S.O. 

In  the  following  April,  Commander  Freyberg 
having  been  promoted  to  be  a  Brigadier,  Arthur 
Asquith  took  over  the  command  of  the  "Hood" 
Battalion  and  played  a  leading  part  in  the  opera- 
tions against  Gavrelle,  taking  the  mayor's  house 
(which  was  the  key  to  the  position)  by  assault  and 
capturing  the  German  garrison.    It  was  largely  due 

[227] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

to  him  that  Gavrelle  was  taken;  and  he  was  awarded 
a  bar  to  his  D.S.O. 

In  October,  1917,  in  the  Battle  of  Passchendaele 
the  Naval  Division  were  heavily  engaged.  The 
following  account  of  what  happened  near  Poelcap- 
pelle  (October  26th)  is  taken  from  the  History  of 
the  Royal  Naval  DivmoUj  by  Sub-Lieutenants  Fry 
and  McMillan: 

On  account  of  the  serious  losses  in  officers,  the 
four  battalions  were  getting  out  of  hand  when  Com- 
mander Asquith,  like  the  bom  fighter  that  he  is, 
came  forward  and  saved  the  situation.  He  placed 
his  battalion  in  the  most  advantageous  positions  to 
meet  any  counter-attacks  that  might  develop. 
That  done,  in  spite  of  heavy  artillery  and  machine- 
gun  fire,  he  passed  from  end  to  end  of  the  line  we 
were  holding  and  superintended  the  consolidation 
of  our  gains.  In  addition,  he  established  liaison 
with  the  Canadians  on  our  right,  and  thus  closed  a 
breach  which  might  have  caused  us  infinite  trouble 
and  been  the  source  of  our  undoing. 

Arthur  Asquith  was  recommended  for  the  V.C. 
(he,  in  fact,  received  a  second  bar  to  his  D.S.O.) ; 
and  these  are  the  terms  of  the  official  recommenda- 
tion: 

Near  Poelcappelle,  during  the  operations  of 
October  26th-27th,  1917,  Commander  Asquith  dis- 

[228] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

played  the  greatest  bravery,  initiative  and  splendid 
leadership,  and  by  his  reconnaissance  of  the  front 
line  made  under  heavy  fire,  contributed  much  val- 
uable information  which  made  the  successful  con- 
tinuance of  the  operations  possible.  During  the 
morning  of  the  26th,  when  no  news  was  forthcoming 
of  the  position  of  the  attacking  troops,  Commander 
Asquith  went  forward,  through  heavy  fire,  round 
the  front  positions,  and  heedless  of  personal  danger, 
found  out  our  dispositions,  got  into  touch  with  the 
troops  on  the  right,  and  returned  after  some  hours 
with  most  valuable  information.  On  the  night  of 
the  same  day,  he  went  forward  alone  in  bright 
moonlight  and  explored  the  ground  in  the  vicinity 
of  Varlet  Farm,  where  the  situation  was  not  clear. 
He  was  observed  by  the  enemy,  but,  in  spite  of 
heavy  rifle  and  machine-gun  fire  directed  at  him, 
and  the  fact  that  the  going  was  necessarily  slow,  ow- 
ing to  the  awful  state  of  the  ground,  he  approached 
Varlet  Farm  then  reported  to  be  in  the  hands  of 
the  enemy.  Entering  a  concrete  building  alone  he 
found  it  occupied  by  a  small  British  garrison,  who 
were  exhausted  and  almost  without  ammunition 
and  the  most  of  them  wounded.  After  investigat- 
ing the  ground  thoroughly  he  returned  and  led  up 
three  platoons  of  a  company  of  this  battalion  and 
relieved  the  garrison.  He  superintended  the  dis- 
posal of  the  troops,  putting  one  platoon  in  the  build- 
ing as  garrison  and  placing  the  other  two  platoons 
on  each  flank.  A  very  important  position  was 
therefore  kept  entirely  in  our  hands,  owing  to  mag- 
nificent bravery,  leadership  and  utter  disregard  of 

[229] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

his  own  personal  safety.  This  example  of  bravery 
and  cool  courage  displayed  throughout  the  opera- 
tions by  Commander  Asquith  encouraged  the  men 
to  greater  efforts,  and  kept  up  their  moral.  His 
valuable  reconnaissance,  the  manner  in  which  he 
led  his  men  and  his  determination  to  hold  the 
ground  gained,  contributed  very  largely  to  the  suc- 
cess of  the  operations. 

On  December  16th,  1917,  he  was  appointed  Brig- 
adier to  command  the  189th  Brigade;  and  a  few 
days  later,  in  reconnoitring  the  position,  he  was 
again  severely  wounded.  His  leg  had  to  be  ampu- 
tated and  he  was  disabled  from  further  active  ser- 
vice in  the  war. 

I  never  saw  Arthur  Asquith  lose  his  temper  or 
think  of  himself  in  my  life. 

•  •••••• 

I  look  around  to  see  what  child  of  which  friend 
is  left  to  become  the  wife  of  my  son  Anthony;  and 
I  wonder  whether  she  will  be  as  virtuous,  loving  and 
good-looking  as  my  other  daughters-in-law. 

We  were  all  wonderfully  happy  together,  but, 
looking  back,  I  think  I  was  far  from  clever  with 
my  stepchildren;  they  grew  up  good  and  success- 
ful independently  of  me. 

In  consequence  of  our  unpopularity  in  Peebles- 
[280] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

shire,  I  had  no  opportunity  of  meeting  other  young 
people  in  their  homes;  and  I  knew  no  family  ex- 
cept my  own.  The  wealth  of  art  and  music,  the 
luxury  of  flowers  and  colour,  the  stretches  of  wild 
country  both  in  Scotland  and  high  Leicestershire, 
which  had  made  up  my  life  till  I  married,  had  not 
qualified  me  to  understand  children  reared  in  dif- 
ferent circumstances.  I  would  not  perhaps  have 
noticed  many  trifles  in  my  step-family,  had  I  not 
been  so  much  made  of,  so  overloved,  caressed  and 
independent  before  my  marriage. 

Every  gardener  prunes  the  roots  of  a  tree  before 
it  is  transplanted,  but  no  one  had  ever  pruned  me. 
If  you  have  been  sunned  through  and  through  like 
an  apricot  on  a  wall  from  your  earliest  days,  you 
are  over-sensitive  to  any  withdrawal  of  heat.  This 
had  been  clearly  foreseen  by  my  friends  and  they 
were  genuinely  anxious  about  the  happiness  and 
future  of  my  stepchildren.  I  do  not  know  which 
of  us  had  been  considered  the  boldest  in  our  mar- 
riage, my  husband  or  myself;  and  no  doubt  step- 
relationships  should  not  be  taken  in  hand  unad- 
visedly, lightly,  or  wantonly,  but  reverently,  dis- 
creetly, and  soberly.     In  every  one  of  the  letters 

[231] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

congratulating  me  there  had  been  a  note  of  warn- 
ing. 

Mr.  Gladstone  wrote : 

May  5th,  1894. 
You  have  a  great  and  noble  work  to  perform. 
It  is  a  work  far  beyond  human  strength.    May  the 
strength  which  is  more  than  human  be  abundantly 
granted  you. 

Ever  yours, 

W.  E.  G. 

I  remember,  on  receiving  this,  saying  to  my  be- 
loved friend.  Con  Manners: 

"Gladstone  thinks  my  fitness  to  be  Henry's  wife 
should  be  prayed  for  like  the  clergy :  *  Almighty  and 
Everlasting  God,  who  alone  workest  great  mar- 
vels. .  .  .'  " 

John  Morley  wrote: 

95  Elm  Park  Gardens, 
South  Kensington, 
S.W. 
March  7, 1894. 
My  dear  Miss  Margot, 

Now  that  the  whirl  of  congratulations  must  be 
ceasing,  here  are  mine,  the  latest  but  not  the  least 
warm  of  them  all.  You  are  going  to  marry  one  of 
the  finest  men  in  all  the  world,  with  a  great  store  of 
sterling  gifts  both  of  head  and  heart,  and  with  a  life 
before  him  of  the  highest  interest,  importance  and 

[232] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

power.  Such  a  man  is  a  companion  that  any  wo- 
man might  envy  you.  I  daresay  you  know  this 
without  my  telling  you.  On  the  other  part,  I  will 
not  add  myself  to  those  impertinents  who — as  I 
understand  you  to  report — wish  you  "to  improve." 
I  very  respectfully  wish  nothing  of  the  sort.  Few 
qualities  are  better  worth  leaving  as  they  are  than 
vivacity,  wit,  freshness  of  mind,  gaiety  and  pluck. 
Pray  keep  them  all.    Don't  improve  by  an  atom. 

Circumstances  may  have  a  lesson  or  two  to  teach 
you,  but  'tis  only  the  dull  who  don't  learn,  and  I 
have  no  fear  but  that  such  a  pair  have  happy  years 
in  front  of  them. 

You  ask  for  my  blessing  and  you  have  it.  Be 
sure  that  I  wish  you  as  unclouded  a  life  as  can  be 
the  lot  of  woman,  and  I  hope  you  will  always  let 
me  count  myself  your  friend.  I  possess  some 
aphorisms  on  the  married  state — but  they  will  keep. 
I  only  let  them  out  as  occasion  comes. 

Always  yours  sincerely, 

John  Morley. 


Looking  back  now  on  the  first  years  of  my  mar- 
riage, I  cannot  exaggerate  the  gratitude  which  I 
feel  for  the  tolerance,  patience  and  loyalty  that  my 
stepchildren  extended  to  a  stranger;  for,  although 
I  introduced  an  enormous  amount  of  fun,  beauty 
and  movement  into  their  lives,  I  could  not  replace 
what  they  had  lost. 

Henry's  first  wife,  Helen  Asquith,  was  an  ex- 

[233] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

ceptionally  pretty,  refined  woman ;  never  dull,  never 
artificial,  and  of  single-minded  goodness ;  she  was  a 
wonderful  wife  and  a  devoted  mother,  but  was  with- 
out illusions  and  even  less  adventurous  than  her 
children.  She  told  me  in  one  of  our  talks  how  much 
she  regretted  that  her  husband  had  taken  silk  and 
was  in  the  House  of  Commons,  at  which  I  said  in 
a  glow  of  surprise: 

"But  surely,  Mrs.  Asquith,  you  are  ambitious  for 
your  husband!    Why,  he's  a  wonderful  man!" 

This  conversation  took  place  in  Grosvenor 
Square  the  second  time  that  we  met,  when  she 
brought  her  little  girl  to  see  me.  Violet  was  aged 
four  and  a  self-possessed,  plump,  clever  little  crea- 
ture, with  lovely  hair  hanging  in  Victorian  ringlets 
down  her  back. 

The  children  were  not  like  Helen  Asquith  in  ap- 
pearance, except  Raymond,  who  had  her  beautiful 
eyes  and  brow;  but,  just  as  they  had  none  of  their 
father's  emotion  and  some  of  his  intellect,  they  all 
inherited  their  mother's  temperament,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Violet,  who  was  more  susceptible  to  the 
new  environment  than  her  brothers.  The  greatest 
compliment  that  was  ever  paid  to  my  appearance — 
and  one  that  helped  me  most  when  I  felt  discour- 
[284] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

aged  in  my  early  married  life — was  what  Helen 
Asquith  said  to  my  husband  and  he  repeated  to  me : 
*'There  is  something  a  little  noble  about  Margot 
Tennant's  expression." 

•  •••••• 

If  my  stepchildren  were  patient  with  me,  I  dare 
not  say  what  their  father  was :  there  are  some  reser- 
vations the  boldest  biographer  has  a  right  to  claim; 
and  I  shall  only  write  of  my  husband's  character — 
his  loyalty,  lack  of  vanity,  freedom  from  self, 
warmth  and  width  of  sympathy — in  connection  -vith 
politics  and  not  with  myself;  but  since  I  hcve 
touched  on  this  subject  I  will  give  one  illustration 
of  his  nature. 

When  the  full  meaning  of  the  disreputable  Gen- 
eral Election  of  1918,  with  its  promises  and  pre- 
tensions and  all  its  silly  and  false  cries,  was  burnt 
into  me  at  Paisley  in  this  year  of  1920  by  our  Coali- 
tion opponent  re-repeating  them,  I  said  to  Henry: 

"Oh,  if  I  had  only  quietly  dropped  all  my  friends 
of  German  name  when  the  war  broke  out  and  never 
gone  to  say  good-bye  to  those  poor  Lichnowskys, 
these  ridiculous  lies  propagated  entirely  for  politi- 
cal purposes  would  never  have  been  told;  and  this 

[235] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

criminal  pro-German  stunt  could  not  have  been 
started." 

To  which  he  replied : 

"God  forbid!  I  would  rather  ten  thousand  times 
be  out  of  public  life  for  ever." 


[236] 


I 


CHAPTER  VII 

VISIT  TO  woman's  prison — INTERVIEW  THERE  WITH 

MRS.  MAYBRICK SCENE  IN  A  LIFER's  CELL;  THE 

HUSBAND   WHO   NEVER   KNEW  THOUGHT   WIFE 

MADE    MONEY    SEWING MARGOT's    PLEA    THAT 

FAILED 

MY  husband  was  Home  Secretary  when  we 
married,  and  took  a  serious  interest  in  our 
prison  system,  which  he  found  far  from  satis- 
factory. He  thought  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing, 
before  we  were  known  by  sight,  to  pay  a  surprise 
visit  to  the  convict-prisons  and  that,  if  I  could  see 
the  women  convicts  and  he  could  see  the  men 
privately,  he  would  be  able  to  examine  the  condi- 
tions under  which  they  served  their  sentences  better 
than  if  we  were  to  go  officially. 

I  was  expecting  my  baby  in  about  three  months 
when  we  made  this  expedition. 

Wormwood  Scrubs  was  the  promising,  almost 
Dickens-like  name  of  one  of  our  convict-prisons 
and,  at  that  time,  took  in  both  men  and  women. 

The  governor  scrutinised  Henry's  fine  writing  on 

[237] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

our  permits ;  he  received  us  dryly,  but  without  sus- 
picion; and  we  divided  off,  having  settled  to 
meet  at  the  front  door  after  an  hour  and  a  half's 
inspection. 

The  matron  who  accompanied  me  was  a  power- 
ful, intelligent-looking  woman  of  hard  countenance 
and  short  speech.  I  put  a  few  stupid  questions  to 
her  about  the  prison :  how  many  convicts  they  had, 
if  the  food  was  good,  etc. 

She  asked  me  if  I  would  care  to  see  Mrs.  May- 
brick,  an  American  criminal,  who  had  been  charged 
with  murder,  but  sentenced  for  manslaughter.  This 
woman  had  poisoned  her  husband  with  mild  in- 
sistence by  arsenic,  but,  as  he  was  taking  this  for 
his  health  at  the  time  of  his  death,  the  evidence  was 
conflicting  as  to  where  he  stopped  and  she  began. 
She  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  lady  and  beauti- 
ful; and  petitions  for  her  reprieve  were  sent  to  us 
signed  by  every  kind  of  person  from  the  United 
States.  I  told  the  matron  I  would  see  her  and  was 
shown  into  her  cell,  where  I  found  her  sitting  on  a 
stool  against  a  bleak  desk,  at  which  she  was  reading. 
I  noted  her  fine  eyes  and  common  mouth  and, 
apologising,  said: 

"I  hope  you  will  not  mind  a  stranger  coming  to 
[288] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

enquire  how  you  are  getting  on,"  adding,  "Have 
you  any  complaints  to  make  of  the  prison?  " 

The  matron  had  left  me  and,  the  doors  heing 
thick,  I  felt  pretty  sure  she  could  not  hear  what  we 
were  saying. 

Mrs.  Maybrick  (shrugging  her  shoulders): 
"The  butter  here  is  abominable  and  we  are  only 
given  two  books — The  Pilgrim's  Progress  and  the 
Bible — and  what  do  you  say  to  our  looking- 
glasses?"  {pointing  to  a  little  glass,  four  inches 
big,  in  a  deep  thick  frame  hanging  on  a  peg), 
"Do  you  know  why  it  is  so  small?" 

Margot:  "No." 

Mrs.  Maybrick:  "Because  the  women  who  want 
to  kill  themselves  can't  get  their  heels  in  to  break  the 
glass;  if  they  could  they  would  cut  their  throats. 
The  men  don't  have  looking-glasses  at  all." 

Margot:  "Do  you  think  they  would  like  to  have 
them?" 

Mrs.  Maybrick  (shrugging  her  shoulders  again 
and  fingering  her  blue  cotton  blouse) :  "I  don't 
suppose  they  care!  I'm  sure  no  one  could  wish  to 
see  themselves  with  cropped  hair  and  in  these 
hideous  clothes." 

Margot:  "I  think  that  I  could  get  you  every 

[239] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

kind  of  book,  if  you  like  reading,  and  will  tell  me 
what  you  want." 

Mrs.  Maybrick  (with  a  sudden  laugh  and  look- 
ing at  me  with  a  contem'ptumis  expression  which 
made  my  heart  ache) :  "Oh,  no,  you  couldn't! 
Never  mind  me!  But  you  might  tell  them  about 
the  butter." 

•  •••••• 

I  did  not  find  Mrs.  Maybrick  sympathique  and 
shortly  after  this  rejoined  the  matron.  It  was  the 
first  time  I  had  seen  a  prison  and  my  heart  and 
mind  were  moved  as  we  went  from  cell  to  cell 
nodding  to  the  grey  occupants. 

"Have  you  any  very  bad  cases?"  I  asked.  "I 
mean  any  woman  who  is  difficult  and  unhappy?" 

Matron  :  "Yes,  there  is  one  woman  here  who  has 
been  sitting  on  the  floor  for  the  last  three  days  and, 
except  a  little  water,  I  don't  think  she  has  swallowed 
a  mouthful  of  food  since  she  came  in.  She  is  a 
violent  person  and  uses  foul  language.  I  do  not 
think  you  had  better  see  her." 

Margot:  "Thank  you,  I  am  not  at  all  afraid. 

Please  take  me  to  her  cell." 

Matron  (still  reluctant  and  eyeing  my  figure): 
"She  may  not  speak  to  you,  but  if  she  does  it  might 
[240] 


I 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

give  you  a  shock.  Do  you  think  you  are  wise  to  go 
in  your  present  condition?" 

Margot:  "Oh,  that's  all  right,  thanks!  I  am 
not  easily  shocked." 

When  we  came  to  the  cell,  I  took  the  precaution 
of  telling  the  matron  she  could  leave  me,  as  after 
this  visit  I  should  have  to  join  my  husband  and  I 
could  find  my  way  to  the  front  hall  by  myself.  She 
opened  the  door  in  silence  and  let  me  in. 

Crouching  on  the  stone  floor,  in  an  animal  atti- 
tude, I  saw  a  woman.  She  did  not  look  up  when 
I  went  in  nor  turn  when  I  shut  the  door.  Her 
eyebrows  almost  joined  above  a  square-tipped 
nose;  and  her  eyes,  shaded  by  long  black  lashes, 
were  fixed  upon  the  ground.  Her  hair  grew  well, 
out  of  a  beautiful  forehead,  and  the  red  curve  of 
her  mouth  gave  expression  to  a  wax-like  face,  I 
had  never  seen  a  more  striking-looking  creature. 

After  my  usual  apology  and  a  gentle  recitative 
of  why  I  had  come,  she  turned  what  little  I  could 
see  of  her  face  away  from  me  and  whatever  I 
suggested  after  that  was  greeted  with  impenetrable 
silence. 

At  last  I  said  to  her: 

"It  is  so  difficult  for  me  to  stand  and  talk  while 

[241] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

you  are  sitting  on  the  ground.    Won't  you  get  up?" 

No  answer.  At  this — being  an  active  woman — 
I  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  stone  floor  and  took 
her  hand  in  both  of  mine.  She  did  not  withdraw 
it,  but  lifted  her  lashes  to  look  at  me.  I  noted  the 
sullen,  exhausted  expression  in  her  grey  eyes;  my 
heart  beat  at  the  beauty  of  her  face. 

"Why  don't  you  speak  to  me?"  I  said.  "I 
might,  for  all  you  know,  be  able  to  do  a  great  deal 
for  you." 

This  was  greeted  by  a  faint  gleam  and  a  pro- 
longed shake  of  the  head. 

Margot:  "You  look  very  young.  What  is  it 
you  did,  that  brought  you  into  this  prison," 

My  question  seemed  to  surprise  her  and  after  a 
moment's  silence  she  said: 

"Don't  you  know  why  I  am  sentenced?" 

Margot:  "No;  and  you  need  not  tell  me  if  you 
don't  want  to.    How  long  are  you  here  for? " 

The  Woman  {in  a  penetrating  voice) :  "Life!" 

Margot:  "That's  impossible;  no  one  is  punished 
for  life  unless  they  commit  murder;  and  even  then 
the  sentence  is  always  shortened." 

The  Woman:  "Shortened  in  time  for  what? 
For  your  death  and  burial?    Perhaps  you  don't 
[242] 


HOME  SECRETARIES:  PAST  AND  PRESENT  DOWN  TO  H,  H.  ASQUITH 


[243] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

know  how  kind  they  are  to  us  here!    No  one  is 
allowed  to  die  in  prison!    But  by  the  time  your 
health  is  gone,  your  hair  white  and  your  friends  are 
dead,  your  family  do  not  need  you  and  all  that  can 
be  done  for  you  is  done  by  charity.    You  die  and 
your  eyes  are  closed  by  your  landlady." 
Margot:  "Tell  me  what  you  did." 
The  Woman:  "Only  what  all  you  fashionable 
women  do  every  day.  •  .  ." 
Margot:  "What?" 

The  Woman:   "I  helped  those  who  were  in 
trouble  to  get  rid  of  their  babies." 
Margot:  "Did  you  take  money  for  it?" 
The  Woman:  "Sometimes  I  did  it  for  nothing." 
Margot:  "What  sort  of  women  did  you  help?" 
The  Woman:  "Oh,  quite  poor  women!" 
Margot:  "When  you  charged  them,  how  much 
money  did  you  ask  for?" 

The  Woman:  "Four  or  five  pounds  and  often 
less." 

Margot  :  "Was  your  husband  a  respectable  man 
and  did  he  know  anything  about  it?" 

The  Woman:     "My  husband  was  highly  re- 
spected.   He  was  a  stone-mason,  and  well  to  do, 

[24.5] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

and  knew  nothing  at  all  till  I  was  arrested.  .  .  . 
He  thought  I  made  money  sewing." 

Margot:    "Poor  man,  how  tragic  1" 

After  this  rather  stupid  ejaculation  of  mine,  she 
relapsed  into  a  frozen  silence  and  I  got  up  off  the 
ground  and  asked  her  if  she  liked  books.  No  an- 
swer. If  the  food  was  good?  No  answer.  If  her 
bed  was  clean  and  comfortable?  But  all  my  ques- 
tions were  in  vain.  At  last  she  broke  the  silence  by 
saying: 

"You  said  just  now  that  you  might  be  able  to 
help  me.  There  is  only  one  thing  in  the  world  that 
I  want,  and  you  could  not  help  to  get  it.  ...  No 
one  can  help  me.  .  .  ." 

Margot;  "Tell  me  what  you  want.  How  can  I 
or  any  one  else  help  you  while  you  sit  on  the  ground, 
neither  speaking  nor  eating?  Get  up  and  I  will 
listen  to  you;  otherwise  I  shall  go  away." 

After  this  she  got  up  stiffly  and  hfted  her  arms  in 
a  stretch  above  her  head,  showing  the  outline  of  her 
fine  bust.    I  said  to  her : 

"I  would  like  to  help  you." 

The  Woman:    "I  want  to  see  one  person  and 
only  one.    I  think  of  nothing  else  and  wonder  night 
and  day  how  it  could  be  managed." 
[246] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Margot:  "Tell  me  who  it  is,  this  one  person, 
that  you  think  of  and  want  so  much  to  see." 

The  Woman:    "I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Asquith." 

Margot  {dumb  with  surprise) :    "Why?" 

The  Woman:  "Because  she  is  only  just  mar- 
ried and  will  never  again  have  as  much  influence 
over  her  husband  as  she  has  now;  and  I  am  told  she 
is  kind.  .  .  ." 

Margot  {moving  towards  her) :  "I  am  Mrs. 
Asquith." 

At  this  the  woman  gave  a  sort  of  howl  and,  shiv- 
ering, with  her  teeth  set,  flung  herself  at  my  feet 
and  clasped  my  ankles  with  an  iron  clutch.  I  should 
have  fallen,  but,  loosening  her  hold  with  great  ra- 
pidity, she  stood  up  and,  facing  me,  held  me  by  my 
shoulders.  The  door  opened  and  the  matron  ap- 
peared, at  which  the  woman  sprang  at  her  with  a 
tornado  of  oaths,  using  strange  words  that  I  had 
never  heard  before.  I  tried  to  silence  her,  but  in 
vain,  so  I  told  the  matron  that  she  might  go  and 
find  out  if  my  husband  was  ready  for  me.  She  did 
not  move  and  seemed  put  out  by  my  request. 

"I  really  think,"  she  said,  "that  you  are  extremely 
foolish  risking  anything  with  this  woman." 

The  Woman   {in  a  penetrating  voice) :  "You 

[247] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

clear  out  and  go  to  hell  with  you  I  This  person  is  a 
Christian,  and  you  are  not!    You  are  a !*' 

I  put  my  hand  over  her  mouth  and  said  I  would 
leave  her  for  ever  if  she  did  not  stop  swearing.  She 
sat  down.    I  turned  to  the  matron  and  said: 

"You  need  not  fear  for  me,  thank  you;  we  prefer 
being  left  alone." 

When  the  matron  had  shut  the  door,  the  woman 
sprang  up  and,  banging  it  with  her  back,  remained 
with  arms  akimbo  and  her  legs  apart,  looking  at  me 
in  defiance.  I  thought  to  myself,  as  I  watched  her 
resolute  face  and  strong,  young  figure,  that,  if  she 
wanted  to  prevent  me  getting  out  of  that  room 
alive,  she  could  easily  do  so. 

The  Woman:  "You  heard  what  I  said,  that 
you  would  never  have  as  much  influence  with  your 
husband  as  you  have  now,  so  just  listen.  He  Is  all- 
powerful  and,  if  he  looks  into  my  case,  he  will  see 
that  I  am  innocent  and  ought  to  be  let  out.  The 
last  Home  Secretary  was  not  married  and  never 
took  any  interest  in  us  poor  women." 

Hearing  the  matron  tapping  at  the  door  and  feel- 
ing rather  anxious  to  get  out,  I  said : 

"I  give  you  my  word  of  honour  that  I  will  make 
my  husband  read  up  all  your  case.  The  matron 
[248] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

will  give  me  your  name  and  details,  but  I  must  go 
now." 

The  Woman  {mth  a  sinister  look) :  "Oh,  no, 
you  don't !  You  stay  here  till  I  give  you  the  details : 
what  does  a  woman  like  that  care  for  a  woman  like 
me?"  {throwing  her  thumb  over  her  shoulder  to- 
wards the  matron  behind  the  door) .  "What  does 
she  know  about  life?" 

Margot:  "You  must  let  me  open  the  door  and 
get  a  pencil  and  paper." 

The  Woman:  "The  old  lady  will  do  it  for  you 
while  I  give  you  the  details  of  my  case.  You  have 
only  got  to  give  her  your  orders.  Does  she  know 
who  you  are?" 

Margot  :  "No ;  and  you  must  not  tell  her,  please. 
If  you  will  trust  me  with  your  secret,  I  will  trust 
you  with  mine;  but  you  must  let  me  out  first  if  I 
am  to  help  you." 

With  a  lofty  wave  of  my  hand,  but  without  tak- 
ing one  step  forward,  I  made  her  move  away  from 
the  door,  which  I  opened  with  a  feeling  of  relief. 
The  matron  was  in  the  passage  and,  while  she  was 
fetching  a  pencil,  the  woman,  standing  in  the  door- 
way of  her  cell,  told  me  in  lowered  tones  how  cruelly 
unlucky  she  had  been  in  life ;  what  worthless,  care- 

[249] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

less  girls  had  passed  through  her  hands;  and  how 
they  had  died  from  no  fault  of  hers,  but  through 
their  own  ignorance.    She  ended  by  saying: 

"There  is  no  gratitude  in  this  world.  .  .  ." 

When  the  matron  came  back,  she  was  much 
shocked  at  seeing  me  kiss  the  convict. 

I  said,  "Good-bye,"  and  never  saw  her  again. 

My  husband  looked  carefully  into  her  case,  but 
found  that  she  was  a  professional  abortionist  of  the 
most  hopeless  type. 


[250] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MARGOT's  first  baby  and  its  loss — DANGEROUS  ILL- 
NESS— LETTER  FROM  QUEEN  VICTORIA — SIR  WIL- 
LIAM HARCOURT's  PLEASANTRIES — ^ASQUITH 
MINISTRY  FALLS — VISIT  FROM  DUCHESS  d'aOSTA 

^IR  JOHN  WILLIAMS*  was  my  doctor  and 
•^  would  have  been  a  remarkable  man  in  any 
country,  but  in  Wales  he  was  unique.  He  was  a 
man  of  heart  without  hysteria  and  both  loyal  and 
truthful. 

On  the  18th  of  May,  1895,  my  sisters  Charlotte 
and  Lucy  were  sitting  with  me  in  my  bedroom.  I 
will  quote  from  my  diary  the  account  of  my  first 
confinement  and  how  I  got  to  know  him : 

"I  began  to  feel  ill.  My  Gamp,  an  angular- 
faced,  admirable  old  woman  called  Jerusha  Taylor 
— *out  of  the  Book  of  Kings' — was  bustling  about 
preparing  for  the  doctor.  Henry  was  holding  my 
hands  and  I  was  sobbing  in  an  arm-chair,  feeling 

*Sir  John  Williams,  of  Aberystwyth,  Wales. 

[251] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

the  panic  of  pain  and  fear  which  no  one  can  realise 
who  has  not  had  a  baby. 

"When  Williams  arrived,  I  felt  as  if  salvation 
must  be  near ;  my  whole  soul  and  every  beat  of  my 
heart  went  out  in  dumb  appeal  to  him,  and  his 
tenderness  on  that  occasion  bred  in  me  a  love  and 
gratitude  which  never  faded,  but  was  intensified  by 
all  I  saw  of  him  afterwards.  He  seemed  to  think 
a  narcotic  would  calm  my  nerves,  but  the  sleeping- 
draught  might  have  been  water  for  all  the  effect  it 
had  upon  me,  so  he  gave  me  chloroform.  The  room 
grew  dark;  grey  poppies  appeared  to  be  nodding 
at  me — and  I  gasped : 

"  'Oh,  doctor,  dear  doctor,  stay  with  me  to-night, 
just  this  one  night,  and  I  will  stay  with  you  when- 
ever you  like!' 

"But  Williams  was  too  anxious,  my  nurse  told 
me,  to  hear  a  word  I  said. 

"At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Henry  went  to 
fetch  the  anaesthetist  and  in  his  absence  Williams 
took  me  out  of  chloroform.  Then  I  seemed  to  have 
a  glimpse  of  a  different  world :  if  pain  is  evil,  then 
it  was  hell;  if  not,  I  expect  I  got  nearer  Heaven 
than  I  have  ever  been  before.  .  .  . 

"I  saw  Dr.  Bailey  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  with  a 
[252] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

bag  in  his  hand,  and  Charty's  outhne  against  the 
lamp ;  then  my  head  was  placed  on  the  pillow  and  a 
black  thing  came  between  me  and  the  light  and 
closed  over  my  mouth,  a  slight  beating  of  carpets 
sounded  in  my  brain  and  I  knew  no  more.  .  .  . 

"When  1  came  to  consciousness  about  twelve  the 
next  morning,  I  saw  Charty  looking  at  me  and  I 
said  to  her  m  a  strange  voice : 

"  *T  can't  have  any  more  pain,  it's  no  use.' 
"Charty  :    'No,  no,  darling,  you  won't  have  any 
more.'    (Silence,) 

"Margot:  *But  you  don't  mean  it's  all  over?' 
"Charty  (soothingly) :  *Go  to  sleep,  dearest.' 
"I  was  so  dazed  by  chloroform  that  I  could  hard- 
ly speak.  Later  on  the  nurse  told  me  that  the  doc- 
tor had  had  to  sacrifice  my  baby  and  that  I  ought  to 
be  grateful  for  being  spared,  as  I  had  had  a  very 
dangerous  confinement. 

"When  Sir  John  Williams  came  to  see  me,  he 
looked  white  and  tired  and,  finding  my  temperature 
was  normal,  he  said  fervently : 
"  'Thank  you,  Mrs.  Asquith.' 
"I  was  too  weak  and  uncomfortable  to  realise 
all  that  had  happened;  and  what  I  suffered  from 
the  smallest  noise  I  can  hardly  describe.    I  would 

[253] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

watch  nurse  slowly  approaching  and  burst  into  a 
perspiration  when  her  cotton  dress  crinkled  against 
the  chintz  of  my  bed.  I  shivered  with  fear  when 
the  bhnds  were  drawn  up  or  the  shutters  unfast- 
ened; and  any  one  moving  up  or  down  stairs,  plac- 
ing a  tumbler  on  the  marble  wash-hand-stand  or 
reading  a  newspaper  would  bring  tears  into  my 
eyes.'' 

In  connection  with  what  I  have  quoted  out  of 
my  diary  here  it  is  not  inappropriate  to  add  that  I 
lost  my  babies  in  three  out  of  my  five  confinements. 
These  poignant  and  secret  griefs  have  no  place  on 
the  high-road  of  life;  but,  just  as  Henry  and  I  will 
stand  sometimes  side  by  side  near  those  little  graves 
unseen  by  strangers,  so  he  and  I  in  unobserved  mo- 
ments will  touch  with  one  heart  an  unforgotten 
sorrow. 

Out  of  the  many  letters  which  I  received,  this 
from  our  intimate  and  affectionate  friend.  Lord 
Haldane,  was  the  one  I  liked  best: 

My  dear  Friend, 

I  cannot  easily  tell  you  how  much  touched  I  was 
in  the  few  minutes  I  spent  talking  to  you  this  after- 
noon, by  what  I  saw  and  what  you  told  me.  I  left 
with  the  sense  of  witnessing  triumph  in  failure  and 
life  come  through  death.    The  strength  that  is  given 

[254] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

at  such  times  arises  not  from  ignoring  loss,  or  per- 
suading oneself  that  the  thing  is  not  that  is;  but 
from  the  resolute  setting  of  the  face  to  the  East  and 
the  taking  of  one  step  onwards.  It  is  the  quality 
we  touch — it  may  be  but  for  a  moment — ^not  the 
quantity  we  have,  that  counts.  "All  I  could  never 
be,  all  that  was  lost  in  me  is  yet  there — in  His  hand 
who  planned  the  perfect  whole."  That  was  what 
Browning  saw  vividly  when  he  wrote  his  Rabbi  Ben 
Ezra.  You  have  lost  a  great  joy.  But  in  the  deep- 
ening and  strengthening  the  love  you  two  have  for 
each  other  you  have  gained  what  is  rarer  and  better; 
it  is  well  worth  the  pain  and  grief — the  grief  you 
have  borne  in  common — and  you  will  rise  stronger 
and  freer. 

We  all  of  us  are  parting  from  youth,  and  the 
horizon  is  narrowing,  but  I  do  not  feel  any  loss  that 
is  not  compensated  by  gain,  and  I  do  not  think  that 
you  do  either.  Anything  that  detaches  one,  that 
makes  one  turn  from  the  past  and  look  simply  at 
what  one  has  to  do,  brings  with  it  new  strength  and 
new  intensity  of  interest.  I  have  no  fear  for  you 
when  I  see  what  is  absolutely  and  unmistakably 
good  and  noble  obliterating  every  other  thought  as 
I  saw  it  this  afternoon.  I  went  away  with 
strengthened  faith  in  what  human  nature  was 
capable  of. 

May  all  that  is  highest  and  best  lie  before  you 
both. 

Your  aif ec.  friend, 
R.  B.  Haldane. 

[255] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  was  gradually  recovering  my  health  when  on 
May  the  21st,  1895,  after  an  agonising  night,  Sir 
John  Williams  and  Henry  came  into  my  bedroom 
between  five  and  six  in  the  morning  and  I  was  told 
that  I  should  have  to  lie  on  my  back  till  August,  as 
I  was  suffering  from  phlebitis;  but  I  was  too  un- 
happy and  disappointed  to  mind.  It  was  then  that 
my  doctor.  Sir  John  Williams,  became  my  friend 
as  well  as  my  nurse,  and  his  nobility  of  character 
made  him  a  powerful  influence  in  my  life. 

To  return  to  my  diary: 

"Queen  Victoria  took  a  great  interest  in  my  con- 
finement, and  wrote  Henry  a  charming  letter.  She 
sent  messengers  constantly  to  ask  after  me  and  I 
answjsred  her  myself  once,  in  pencil,  when  Henry 
was  at  the  Home  Office. 

"I  was  convalescing  one  day,  lying  as  usual  on  my 
bed,  my  mind  a  blank,  when  Sir  William  Har- 
court's  card  was  sent  up  to  me  and  my  door  was 
darkened  by  his  huge  form. 

I  had  seen  most  of  my  political  and  other 
friends  while  I  was  convalescing:  Mr.  Gladstone, 
Lord  Haldane,  Mr.  Birrell,  Lord  Spencer,  Lord 
Rosebery,  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  John 
Morley,  Arthur  Balfour,  Sir  Alfred  Lyall  and 
[256] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Admiral  Maxse;  and  I  was  delighted  to  see  Sir 
William  Harcourt.  When  he  came  into  my  room, 
he  observed  my  hunting-crops  hanging  on  the  wall 
from  a  rack,  and  said: 

"I  am  glad  to  see  those  whips!  Asquith  will  be 
able  to  beat  you  if  you  play  fast  and  loose  with  hmi. 
That  little  tight  mouth  of  his  convinces  me  he  has 
the  capacity  to  do  it. 

*  After  my  nurse  had  left  the  room,  he  expressed 
surprise  that  I  should  have  an  ugly  woman  near 
me,  however  good  she  might  be,  and  told  me  that 
his  son,  Bobby,  had  been  in  love  with  his  nurse  and 
wrote  to  her  for  several  years.  He  added,  in  his 
best  Hanoverian  vein: 

*^  *I  encourage  my  boys  all  I  can  in  this  line ;  it 
promises  well  for  their  future.'  " 

"After  some  talk,  Mr.  John  Morley's  card  was 
brought  up  and,  seeing  Sir  William  look  rather  sub- 
dued, I  told  the  servant  to  ask  him  to  wait  in  my 
boudoir  for  a  few  minutes  and  assured  my  guest 
that  I  was  in  no  hurry  for  him  to  go ;  but  Harcourt 
began  to  fidget  about  and  after  a  little  he  insisted 
on  John  Morley  coming  up.  We  had  a  good  talk 
a  trois,  starting  by  abusing  men  who  minded  other 
people's  opinion  or  what  the  newspapers  said  of 

[257] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

them.  Knowing,  as  I  did,  that  both  of  them  were 
highly  sensitive  to  the  Press,  I  encouraged  the  con- 
versation. 

"John  Morley:  *I  can  only  say  I  agree  with 
what  Joe  once  said  to  me,  "I  would  rather  the 
newspapers  were  for  than  against  me."  ' 

**SiR  William:  *My  dear  chap,  you  would  surely 
not  rather  have  the  Daily  Chronicle  on  your  side. 
Why,  bless  my  soul,  our  party  has  had  more  harm 
done  it  through  the  Daily  Chronicle  than  anything 
else!' 

"Margot:  *Do  you  think  so?  I  think  its  screams, 
though  pitched  a  little  high,  are  effective!' 

"John  Morley:  *Oh,  you  like  Massingham,  of 
course,  because  your  husband  is  one  of  his  heroes.' 

"Sir  William  :  *  Well,  all  I  can  say  is  he  always 
abuses  me  and  I  am  glad  of  it.' 

"John  Morley:  *He  abuses  me,  too,  though  not, 
perhaps,  quite  so  often  as  you !' 

"Margot  :  *I  would  like  him  to  praise  me.  I  think 
his  descriptions  of  the  House  of  Commons  debates 
are  not  only  true  and  brilliant  but  fine  literature; 
there  is  both  style  and  edge  in  his  writing  and  I 
rather  like  that  bitter-ahnond  flavour!  How 
[258] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

strangely  the  paper  changed  over  to  Lord  Rose- 
bery,  didn't  it?' 

"Feeling  this  was  ticklish  ground,  as  Harcourt 
thought  that  he  and  not  Rosebery  should  have  been 
Prime  Minister,  I  turned  the  talk  on  to  Goschen. 

"Sir  William  :  'It  is  sad  to  see  the  way  Goschen 
has  lost  his  hold  in  the  country;  he  has  not  been  at 
all  well  treated  by  his  colleagues.' 

"This  seemed  to  me  to  be  also  rather  risky,  so  I 
said  boldly  that  I  thought  Goschen  had  done  won- 
ders in  the  House  and  country,  considering  he  had 
a  poor  voice  and  was  naturally  cautious.  I  told 
them  I  loved  him  personally  and  that  Jowett  at 
whose  house  I  first  met  him  shared  my  feeling  in 
valuing  his  friendship.  After  this  he  took  his  de- 
parture^ promising  to  bring  me  roses  from  Mal- 
wood. 

"John  Morley — ^the  most  fastidious  afid  fas- 
cinating of  men — stayed  on  with  me  and  suggested 
quite  seriously  that,  when  we  went  out  of  office 
(which  might  happen  any  day),  he  and  I  should 
write  a  novel  together.  He  said  that,  if  I  would 
write  the  plot  and  do  the  female  characters,  he 
would  manage  the  men  and  politics. 

[259] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  asked  if  he  wanted  the  old  Wilkie  Collins  idea 
of  a  plot  with  a  hundred  threads  drawn  into  ope 
woof,  or  did  he  prefer  modern  nothingness,  a  shred 
of  a  story  attached  to  unending  analysis  and  the 
infinitely  little  commented  upon  with  elaborate  and 
pretentious  humour.    He  scorned  the  latter. 

I  asked  him  if  he  did  not  want  to  go  permanently 
away  from  politics  to  literature  and  discussed  all 
his  wonderful  books  and  writings.  I  chaffed  him 
about  the  way  he  had  spoken  of  me  before  our  mar- 
riage, in  spite  of  the  charming  letter  he  had  written, 
how  it  had  been  repeated  to  me  that  he  had  said 
my  light-hearted  indiscretions  would  ruin  Henry's 
career;  and  I  asked  him  what  I  had  done  since  to 
merit  his  renewed  confidence. 

"He  did  not  deny  having  criticised  me,  for  al- 
though 'Honest  John' — the  name  by  which  he  went 
among  the  Radicals — was  singularly  ill-chosen,  I 
never  heard  of  Morley  telling  a  lie.  He  was  quite 
impenitent  and  I  admired  his  courage. 

■''After     an     engrossing     conversation,     every 
moment  of  which  I  loved,  he  said  good-bye  to  me 
and  I  leant  back  against  the  pillow  and  gazed  at 
the  pattern  on  the  wall. 
[260] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"Henry  came  into  my  room  shortly  after  this  and 
told  me  the  Government  had  been  beaten  by  seven 
in  a  vote  of  censure  passed  on  Campbell-Banner- 
man  in  Supply,  in  connection  with  small  arms  am- 
munition.   I  looked  at  him  wonderingly  and  said: 

"  'Are  you  sad,  darling,  that  we  are  out?' 

"To  which  he  replied: 

"  *Only  for  one  reason.  I  wish  I  had  completed 
my  prison  reforms.  I  have,  however,  appointed  the 
best  committee  ever  seen,  who  will  go  on  with  my 
work.  Ruggles-Brise,  the  head  of  it,  is  a  splendid 
little  fellow!' 

"At  that  moment  he  received  a  note  to  say  he  was 
wanted  in  the  House  of  Commons  immediately,  as 
Lord  Rosebery  had  been  sent  for  by  the  Queen. 
This  excited  us  much  and,  before  he  could  finish 
telling  me  what  had  happened,  he  went  straight 
down  to  Westminster.  .  .  .  John  Morley  had 
missed  this  fateful  division,  as  he  was  sitting  with 
me,  and  Har court  had  only  just  arrived  at  the 
House  in  time  to  vote. 

"Henry  returned  at  1  a.m.  and  came  to  say  good 
night  to  me:  he  generally  said  his  prayers  by  my 
bedside.  He  told  me  that  St.  John  Brodrick's  mo- 
tion to  reduce  C.  B.'s  salary  by  £100  had  turned  the 

[261] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Government  out;  that  Rosebery  had  resigned  and 
gone  straight  down  to  Windsor;  that  Campbell- 
Bannerman  was  indignant  and  hurt;  that  few  of  our 
men  were  in  the  House;  and  that  Akers  Douglas, 
the  Tory  Whip,  could  not  believe  his  eyes  when  he 
handed  the  figures  to  Tom  Ellis,  our  chief  Whip, 
who  returned  them  to  him  in  silence. 

"The  next  morning  St.  John  Brodrick  came  to 
see  me,  full  of  excitement  and  sympathy.  He  was 
anxious  to  know  if  we  minded  his  being  instru- 
mental in  our  downfall;  but  I  am  so  fond  of  him 
that,  of  course,  I  told  him  that  I  did  not  mind,  as 
a  week  sooner  or  later  makes  no  difference  and 
St.  John's  division  was  only  one  out  of  many  indi- 
cations in  the  House  and  the  country  that  our  time 
was  up.  Henry  came  back  from  the  Cabinet  in  the 
middle  of  our  talk  and  shook  his  fist  in  fun  at  *our 
enemy.'    He  was  tired,  but  good-humoured  as  ever. 

"At  3.30  Princess  Helene  d'Orleans  came  to  see 
me  and  told  me  of  her  engagement  to  the  Due 
d'Aosta.  She  looked  tall,  black  and  distinguished. 
She  spoke  of  Prince  Eddy  to  me  with  great  frank- 
ness. I  told  her  I  had  sometimes  wondered  at  her 
devotion  to  one  less  clever  than  herself.  At  this 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  she  explained  to  me 
[262] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

how  much  she  had  been  in  love  and  the  sweetness 
and  nobility  of  his  character.  I  had  reason  to  know 
the  truth  of  what  she  said  when  one  day  Queen 
Alexandra,  after  talking  to  me  in  moving  terms 
of  her  dead  son,  wrote  in  my  Prayer  Book: 

"Man  looketh  upon  the  countenance,  but  God 
upon  the  heart. 

"Helene  adores  the  Princess  of  Wales*  but  not 
the  Prince !  t  and  says  the  latter's  rudeness  to  her 
brother,  the  Due  d'Orleans,  is  terrible.  I  said 
nothing,  as  I  am  devoted  to  the  Prince  and  think 
her  brother  deserves  any  ill-treatment  he  gets.  I 
asked  her  if  she  was  afraid  of  the  future:  a  new 
country  and  the  prospect  of  babies,  etc.  She  an- 
swered that  d'Aosta  was  so  genuinely  devoted  that 
it  would  make  everything  easy  for  her. 

"  *What  would  you  do  if  he  were  unfaithful  to 
you?'  I  asked, 

"Princess   Helene:    *Oh!     I   told   Emanuel. 
.  .  .  I  said,  "You  see?     I  leave  you.  ...       If 
you  are  not  true  to  me,  I  instantly  leave  you,' 
and  I  should  do  so  at  once.' 


*Queen  Alexandra. 
fKing  Edward  VII. 


[263] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

"She  begged  me  never  to  forget  her,  but  always 
to  pray  for  her. 

"  *I  love  you,'  she  said,  *as  every  one  else  does'; 
and  with  a  warm  embrace  she  left  the  room. 

"She  came  of  a  handsome  family:  Blowitz's 
famous  description,  'de  loin  on  dirait  un  Pmssien, 
de  prbs  un  imbecile/  was  made  of  a  near  relation  of 
the  Duchesse  d'Aosta." 

•  •••••• 

With  the  fall  of  the  Government  my  diary  of 
that  year  ceases  to  have  the  smallest  interest. 


[264] 


CHAPTER  IX 

MARGOT  IN  1906  SUMS  UP  HER  LIFE;  A  LOT  OF  LOVE- 
MAKING,  A  LITTLE  FAME  AND  MORE  ABUSE ^A 

REAL  MAN  AND  GREAT  HAPPINESS 

1WILL  finish  with  a  character-sketch  of  my- 
self copied  out  of  my  diary,  written  nine  weeks 
before  the  birth  of  my  fifth  and  last  baby  in  1906, 
and  like  everything  else  that  I  have  quoted  never 
intended  for  the  public  eye : 

"I  am  not  pretty,  and  I  do  not  know  anything 
about  my  expression,  although  I  observe  it  is  this 
that  is  particularly  dwelt  upon  if  one  is  sufficiently 
plain;  but  I  hope,  when  you  feel  as  kindly  towards 
your  fellow-creatures  as  I  do,  that  some  of  that 
warmth  may  modify  an  otherwise  bright  and  rather 
knif ey  contour, 

"My  figure  has  remained  as  it  was:  slight,  well- 
balanced  and  active.  Being  socially  courageous  and 
not  at  all  shy,  I  think  I  can  come  into  a  room  as 
well  as  many  people  of  more  appearance  and  pres- 
tige. I  do  not  propose  to  treat  myself  like  Mr. 
Bernard  Shaw  in  this  account.    I  shall  neither  ex- 

[265] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

cuse  myself  from  praise,  nor  shield  myself  from 
blame,  but  put  down  the  figures  as  accurately  as  I 
can  and  leave  others  to  add  them  up. 

"I  think  I  have  imagination,  born  not  of  fancy, 
but  of  feeling;  a  conception  of  the  beautiful,  not 
merely  in  poetry,  music,  art  and  nature,  but  in 
human  beings.  I  have  insight  into  human  nature, 
derived  not  only  from  a  courageous  experience,  but 
also  from  imagination;  and  I  have  a  clear  though 
distant  vision,  down  dark,  long  and  often  divergent 
avenues,  of  the  ordered  meaning  of  God.  I  take 
this  opportunity  of  saying  my  religion  is  a  vibrating 
reality  never  away  from  me;  and  this  is  all  I  shall 
write  upon  the  subject. 

"It  is  difficult  to  describe  what  one  means  by 
imagination,  but  I  think  it  is  more  than  inventive- 
ness, or  fancy.  I  remember  discussing  the  question 
with  John  Addington  Symonds  and,  to  give  him  a 
hasty  illustration  of  what  I  meant,  I  said  I  thought 
naming  a  Highland  regiment  *The  Black  Watch* 
showed  a  high  degree  of  imagination.  He  was 
pleased  with  this;  and  as  a  personal  testimonial  I 
may  add  that  both  he  and  Jowett  told  me  that  no 
one  could  be  as  good  a  judge  of  character  as  I  was 
[266] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

who  was  without  imagination.     In  an  early  love- 
letter  to  me,  Henry  wrote : 

"Imaginative  insight  you  have  more  than  any  one 
I  have  ever  met! 

"I  think  I  am  deficient  in  one  form  of  imagina- 
tion; and  Henry  will  agree  with  this.  I  have  a 
great  longing  to  help  those  I  love :  this  leads  me  to 
intrepid  personal  criticism;  and  I  do  not  always 
know  what  hurts  my  friends'  feelings.  I  do  not 
think  I  should  mind  anything  that  I  have  said  to 
others  being  said  to  me,  but  one  never  can  tell;  I 
have  a  good,  sound  digestion  and  personally  prefer 
knowing  the  truth;  I  have  taken  adverse  criticism 
pretty  well  all  my  life  and  had  a  lot  of  it;  but  by 
some  gap  I  have  not  succeeded  in  makingmy  friends 
take  it  well.  I  am  not  vain  or  touchy ;  it  takes  a  lot 
to  offend  me ;  but  when  I  am  hurt  the  scar  remains. 
I  feel  differently  about  people  who  have  hurt  me; 
my  confidence  has  been  shaken;  I  hope  I  am  not 
ungenerous,  but  I  fear  I  am  not  really  forgiving. 
Worldly  people  say  that  explanations  are  a  mis- 
take; but  having  it  out  is  the  only  chance  any  one 
can  ever  have  of  retaining  my  love;  and  those  who 
have  neither  the  courage,  candour  nor  humbleness 

[267] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

to  say  they  are  wrong  are  not  worth  loving.  I  am 
not  afraid  of  suffering  too  much  in  life,  but  much 
more  afraid  of  feeling  too  little;  and  quarrels  make 
me  profoundly  unhappy.  One  of  my  complaints 
against  the  shortness  of  life  is  that  there  is  not  time 
enough  to  feel  pity  and  love  for  enough  people.  I 
am  infinitely  compassionate  and  moved  to  my  foun- 
dations by  the  misfortunes  of  other  people. 

"As  I  said  in  my  1888  character-sketch,  truthful- 
ness with  me  is  hardly  a  virtue,  but  I  cannot  dis- 
criminate between  truths  that  need  and  those  that 
need  not  be  told.  Want  of  courage  is  what  makes 
so  many  people  lie.  It  would  be  difficult  for  me  to 
say  exactly  what  I  am  afraid  of.  Physically  and 
socially  not  much;  morally,  I  am  afraid  of  a  good 
many  things :  reprimanding  servants,  bargaining  in 
shops;  or  to  turn  to  more  serious  matters,  the  loss 
of  my  health,  the  children's  or  Henry's.  Against 
these  last  possibilities  I  pray  in  every  recess  of  my 
thoughts. 

"With  becoming  modesty  I  have  said  that  I  am 
imaginative,  loving  and  brave  I  What  then  are  my 
faults? 

"I  am  fundamentally  nervous,  impatient,  irrita- 
ble and  restless.  These  may  sound  slight  shortcom- 
[268] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

ings,  but  they  go  to  the  foundation  of  my  nature, 
crippling  my  activity,  lessening  my  influence  and 
preventing  my  achieving  anything  remarkable.  I 
wear  myself  out  in  a  hundred  unnecessary  ways, 
regretting  the  trifles  I  have  not  done,  arranging 
and  re-arranging  what  I  have  got  to  do  and  what 
every  one  else  is  going  to  do,  till  I  can  hardly  eat 
or  sleep.  To  be  in  one  position  for  long  at  a  time, 
or  sit  through  bad  plays,  to  listen  to  moderate  music 
or  moderate  conversation  is  a  positive  punishment 
to  me.  I  am  energetic  and  industrious,  but  I  am  a 
little  too  quick ;  I  am  driven  along  by  my  tempera- 
ment till  I  tire  myself  and  every  one  else. 

"I  did  not  marry  till  I  was  thirty.  This  luckily 
gave  me  time  to  read;  and  I  collected  nearly  a 
thousand  books  of  my  own  before  I  married.  If 
I  had  had  real  application — as  all  the  Asquiths 
have — I  should  by  now  be  a  well-educated  woman ; 
but  this  I  never  had.  I  am  not  at  all  dull,  and 
never  stale,  but  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  grind  at 
uncongenial  things.  I  have  a  good  memory  for 
books  and  conversations,  but  bad  for  poetry  and 
dates ;  wonderful  for  faces  and  pitiful  for  names. 

"Physically  I  have  done  pretty  well  for  myself. 

[269] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  ride  better  than  most  people  and  have  spent  or 
wasted  more  time  on  it  than  any  woman  of  intellect 
ought  to.  I  have  broken  both  collar-bones,  all  my 
ribs  and  my  knee-cap;  dislocated  my  jaw,  fractured 
my  skull,  gashed  my  nose  and  had  five  concussions 
of  the  brain ;  but — though  my  horses  are  to  be  sold 
next  week* — I  have  not  lost  my  nerve.  I  dance, 
drive  and  skate  well;  I  don't  skate  very  well,  but  I 
dance  really  well.  I  have  a  talent  for  drawing  and 
am  intensely  musical,  playing  the  piano  with  a 
touch  of  the  real  thing,  but  have  neglected  both 
these  accomplishments.  I  may  say  here  in  self- 
defence  that  marriage  and  five  babies,  five  step- 
children and  a  husband  in  high  politics  have  all 
contributed  to  this  neglect,  but  the  root  of  the 
matter  lies  deeper:  I  am  restless. 

"After  riding,  what  I  have  enjoyed  doing  most  in 
my  life  is  writing.  I  have  written  a  great  deal,  but 
do  not  fancy  publishing  my  exercises.  I  have 
always  kept  a  diary  and  commonplace  books  and 
for  many  years  I  wrote  criticisms  of  everjrthing  I 
read.  It  is  rather  difficult  for  me  to  say  what  I 
think  of  my  own  writing.     Arthur  Balfour  once 

♦My  horses  were  sold  at  Tattersalls,  June  11th,  1906. 

[270] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

said  that  I  was  the  best  letter-writer  he  knew; 
Henry  tells  me  I  write  well;  and  Symonds  said  I 
had  Voreille  juste;  but  writing  of  the  kind  that  I 
like  reading  I  cannot  do:  it  is  a  long  apprenticeship. 
Possibly,  if  I  had  had  this  apprenticeship  forced 
upon  me  by  circumstances,  I  should  have  done  it 
better  than  anything  else.  I  am  a  careful  critic 
of  all  I  read  and  I  do  not  take  my  opinions  of  books 
from  other  people;  I  have  not  got  'a  lending- 
library  mind'  as  Henry  well  described  that  of  a 
friend  of  ours.  I  do  not  take  my  opinions  upon 
anything  from  other  people;  from  this  point  of 
view — not  a  very  high  one — I  might  be  called 
original. 

"When  I  read  Arthur  Balfour's  books  and 
essays,  I  realised  before  I  had  heard  them  dis- 
cussed what  a  beautiful  style  he  wrote.  Raymond, 
whose  intellectual  taste  is  as  fine  as  his  father's, 
wrote  in  a  paper  for  his  All  Souls  Fellowship  that 
Arthur  had  the  finest  style  of  any  living  writer ;  and 
Raymond  and  Henry  often  justify  my  literary 
verdicts. 

"From  my  earliest  age  I  have  been  a  collector: 
not  of  anything  particularly  valuable,  but  of  letters, 

[271] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

old  photographs  of  the  family,  famous  people  and 
odds  and  ends.  I  do  not  lose  things.  Our  cigarette 
ash-trays  are  plates  from  my  dolls'  dinner-service; 
I  have  got  china,  books,  whips,  knives,  match-boxes 
and  clocks  given  me  since  I  was  a  small  child.  I 
have  kept  our  early  copy-books,  with  all  the  family 
signatures  in  them,  and  many  trifling  landmarks  of 
nursery  life.  I  am  painfully  punctual,  tidy  and 
methodical,  detesting  indecision,  change  of  plans 
and  the  egotism  that  they  involve.  I  am  a  little 
stern  and  severe  except  with  children:  for  these  I 
have  endless  elasticity  and  patience.  Many  of  my 
faults  are  physical.  If  I  could  have  chosen  my  own 
life — ^more  in  the  hills  and  less  in  the  traffic — I 
should  have  slept  better  and  might  have  been  less 
overwrought  and  disturbable.  But  after  all  I  may 
improve,  for  I  am  on  a  man-of-war,  as  a  friend  once 
said  to  me,  which  is  better  than  being  on  a  pirate- 
ship  and  is  a  profession  in  itself. 

"Well,  I  have  finished;  I  have  tried  to  relate  of 
my  manners,  morals,  talents,  defects,  temptations, 
and  appearance  as  faithfully  as  I  can;  and  I  think 
there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said.  If  I  had  to  con- 
fess and  expose  one  opinon  of  myself  which  might 
[272] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

differentiate  me  a  little  from  other  people,  I  should 
say  it  was  my  power  of  love  coupled  with  my  power 
of  criticism,  but  what  I  lack  most  is  what 
Henry  possesses  above  all  men:  equanimity,  mod- 
eration, self-control  and  the  authority  that  comes 
from  a  perfect  sense  of  proportion.  I  can  only 
pray  that  I  am  not  too  old  or  too  stationary  to 
acquire  these. 

Margot  Asquith. 

"P.S.  This  is  my  second  attempt  to  write  about 
myself  and  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  my  old  char- 
acter-sketch of  1888  is  not  the  better  of  the  two — 
it  is  more  external — ^but,  after  all,  what  can  one 
say  of  one's  inner  self  that  corresponds  with  what 
one  really  is  or  what  one's  friends  think  one  is? 
Just  now  I  am  within  a  few  weeks  of  my  baby's 
birth  and  am  tempted  to  take  a  gloomy  view.  I 
am  inclined  to  sum  up  my  life  in  this  way: 

"  *An  unfettered  childhood  and  triumphant 
youth;  a  lot  of  love-making  and  a  little  abuse;  a 
little  fame  and  more  abuse;  a  real  man  and  great 
happiness ;  the  love  of  children  and  seventh  heaven ; 
an  early  death  and  a  crowded  memorial  service.' 

"But  perhaps  I  shall  not  die,  but  live  to  write  an- 

[273] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

other  volume  of  this  diary  and  a  better  description 
of  an  improved  self." 


k^^J^foJi 


THE    END    OF    BOOK    TWO 


[274] 


INDEX 

Books  One  and  Two 

A 


Alexandra,  Queen 
Archer,  Fred  .  . 
Argyll,  Duke  of 
Arnold,  Matthew 
Asqulth,  Anthony 
Asquith,  Arthur  . 
Asquith,  Cyril  .  . 
Asquith,  Mrs.  Helen 
Asquith,  Herbert  Henry 


I,  117-8. 

I,  198,  201. 
II,  75-6. 

I,  206;  II,  74. 
II,  230. 
II,  226-7. 
II,  211-3. 
II,  233-4. 

I,  156-7;  210,  234,  237,  252; 
II,  113,     116,      119,      191-6, 

235-6,  261. 
II,  224. 
II,  91. 


Asquith,    Herbert,    Jr 

Asquith,    Joseph    Dixon    .... 

Asquith,  Mrs.  Joseph II,  91-2. 

Asquith,      Mrs.       Margot,      character 

sketches  written  by  herself  ....    II,  77-9,  265-73. 

Asquith,  Raymond II,  215-8. 

Asquith,     Violet.      See    Carter,    Lady 

Bonham. 

Austin,  Alfred IT,  61. 

Aylesbury,  Dowager  Marchioness  of  .      I,  74. 


B 

Baker,    Harold II,  222. 

Balfour,  Right  Hon.   A.  J I,  28,  251,  256-6?; 

II,  117,  122,  271. 

Balfour,  Lady   Blanche I,  263. 

Balfour,  Lady  Frances II,  75. 

Battersea,  Lord  .........  II,  194. 


[275] 


INDEX 

Beaufort,  Duke  of I,  135-8. 

Bibesco,    Princess I,  20. 

Birrell,   Augustine II,  134. 

Blavatfiky,    Madame I,  Q12-S. 

Blunt,    WUfrid I,  30. 

Bo,  Mrs II,  150-7. 

Bohemian    Society II,  195. 

Border  people  and  Southern  English    .      I,  50. 

Bowen,  Lord II,  126-7. 

Brodrick,    St.    John.      See    Midleton, 
Earl  of. 

Bryan,    W.    J I,  214. 

Burke,  Mr.,  Murder  of I,  203. 

Burns,    Robert I,  35. 

Business  men I,  33. 

Buxton,  Francis I,  182. 

C 

Campbell-Bannerman,    Sir   Henry   .    .  I,  252-5. 
Canterbury,  Archbishop  of.  See  David- 
son, Randall  T. 

Carlyle,  Jane  Welsh II,  48 

Carnegie,   Andrew II,  74. 

Carter,  Lady  Bonham II,  213-5. 

Cavendish,  Lord  Frederick,  murder  of  I,  203. 

Cecil,  Lord   Hugh I,  237. 

Cecil,  Lord  Robert I,  237. 

Chamberlain,    Joseph I,  218-9,  237-8. 

Chaplin,     Mrs I,  141,  143. 

Church    of    England I,  242. 

Churchill,  Lady  Randolph I,  131. 

ChurchUl,  Lord   Randolph I,  126-30,  208;  II,  198. 

Clarke,     Lady II,  16. 

Clifford's   Factory I,  108-16. 

Cobden I,  231. 

Conservative  Party I,  204. 

Coquelm I,  245-6. 

Country    Conversations I,  233. 

Crewe,   Marchioness   of II,  89. 

[276] 


INDEX 

Crouch,    Mr IT,  300. 

Cunard,  Gordon II,  132. 

Curzon,  Lord II,  14-33. 

D 

D'Abemon,    Lord I,  30. 

"Daily    Chronicle" II,  358. 

DalhousiCi  Earl  of I,  331. 

Davidson,  Randall  T.     Archbishop  of 

Canterbury II,  101. 

Desborough,  Lord  and  Lady  ....  II,  36-7. 

Devonshire,  Duchess  of I,  117,  309-17. 

DevonsMre,  Duke  of I,  133-3,  314,  333. 

Dilke,  Sir  Charles I,  148,  318-9. 

Disestablishment II,  131. 

Dresden I,  161,  et  seq. 

Dudley,  Countess   of I,  118. 

Duff,  Thomas  Gordon I,  13. 

Duncan,  Dr.   Matthews I,  97. 

E 

Edward  VII I,  131-3,  135,  130-3. 

Elcho,    Lord II,  31. 

Eyton^  Canon I,  181-3. 

P 

Flower,  Peter II,  133,   137-90. 

Free  Trade I,  341. 

G 

Games I,  74,  77;  II,  13. 

G€orge  IV I,  237. 

George  V I,  123. 

German  "spies" I,  160. 

Gladstone,  Lord I,  19. 

Gladstone,  William  Ewart I,  105-6,  319-35;  II,  80,  118, 

193,  304,  333. 

Glen I,  46-8. 

[277] 


INDEX 

Glencoimcr,    Lord I,  14,   19-90. 

Gordon,  Charles  G.,  Gen. II,  126-7. 

Goschen I,  231;   II,  8M. 

Graf  Von  — I,  170-3. 

Graham,    Peter I,  54. 

Granard,  Countess  of II,  90. 

Greatness,  elements  of II,  101. 

Green,  Thomas   Hill I,  81-2. 

Green,    Mrs.    T.    H II,  127. 

Grey  of  Fallodon,  Viscount  ....  II,  128,  223-4. 

Grosvcnor,  Countess  of I,  133. 

H 

Haldanc,    Lord I,  28;   II,  254-S. 

Haldane,    Mrs I,  57. 

Hamlyn,    Mrs II,  135-6. 

Harcourt,   Sir   William I,  252;  II,  256-9. 

Hartington,     Lord.     See     Devonshire, 
Duke  of. 

Heseltine,    Mr. I,  28. 

Hill,    Henry II,  160-1. 

Hirsch,  Baron I,  191-202. 

Hirsch,    Lucien I,  193. 

Home  Rule.     See  Ireland. 

Homer,  Lady II,  42. 

House  of  Lords I,  241. 

Huxley,  T.  H II,  128-7. 

I 

Ireland:   Home  Rule  question    ...  I,  203-7,  232;  II,  115, 

J 

James,    Henry II,  70-S. 

Jeune,    Lady II,  116. 

Jowett,  Dr.  Benjamin I,  81;  II,  ch.  ii  pattvm 

K 

Keppel,  Hon.  Mrs.  George II,  90. 

Kimberley,  Lord I,  232. 

KUhlman I.  206. 


[278] 


INDEX 


L 

Langtry,    Mrs I,  117. 

Law,  A.   Bonar I,  33. 

Lawson,  Cecil I,  24. 

Leconfield,  Lady II,  111. 

Lewis,    Sam II,  177. 

Liddell,  A.  G.  C I,  39,  45,  59,  6S. 

Londonderry,  Lady II,  38-41. 

Lyall,   Sir  Alfred II,  124-5. 

Lymington,    Lord I,  78. 

Lyttleton,    Alfred I,  77-89. 

Lyttleton,  Mrs.  Alfred  (Laura)  ...  I,  53,  59-107. 

M 

Mach,  Frau  von I,  159,  et  seq. 

McKenna,  Mrs. II,  90. 

Manners,  Lord  and  Lady II,  131-6. 

Marsh,    Catherine II,  95. 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scots II,  230. 

Massingham,  Henry  W II,  258. 

Maybrick,  Mrs II,  238-42. 

Mennecy,   Mdlle.    de I,  144,  et  seq, 

Meredith,    George II,  61,    67. 

Midleton,   Earl  of II,  26-9,  262. 

Miller,  Sir  Willliam I,  184-91. 

Money-making I,  33. 

Montgomery,   Sir  Graham I,  70-1. 

Morison,    Mary I,  59. 

Morley,     Lord I,  222;  II,  73-5,  232-3,  267- 

61. 

N 

Napier,  Hon.  Mark I,  28,  42. 

Nettleship,  Richard  L II,  114. 

Newman,  Cardinal II,  113. 

Nightingale,  Florence II,  105-7,  119. 

O 

Ollphant,  Laurence «    II*  138. 

[279] 


INDEX 


p 

Parnell,   Charles    S I,  231. 

"Peggy  Bedford"  pubHc  house  ...      I,  112-5. 
Pembroke,  Earl  and  Countess  of  .    .      I,  30;  II,  29-32. 

Phoenix   Park  murders I,  203. 

Planchette I,  211. 

Positivism I,  264-6. 

Prayer  written  by  Lady  Blanche  Bal- 
four       I,  263. 

Protection I,  241. 

R 

Religion,  Jowett  on II,  121-2. 

Ribblesdale,   Lady I,  15,  42. 

Ribblesdale,   Lord I,  28-30. 

"Robert   Elsmere" II,  107,  110,  112. 

Rosebery,  Earl  and  Countess  of    .    .      I,  28,  244,  247-52;  II,  111, 

198. 

Rothschild,    Lord I,  14. 

Ruggles-Brise II,  261. 


Sabbath,    Scottish I,  57. 

Salisbury,    Marquis    of I,  126-9,  210,  236-48. 

Saunderson,     Col I,  74. 

Scott,    Alexander I,  215. 

Scottish   people I,  50. 

Scottish  Sabbath I,  57. 

Selborne,   Earl  of I,  124. 

Simpson,  Sir  James I,  42. 

Smith,  Mrs.  Graham I,  15. 

Society,  Jowett  on I,  115. 

Souls,  The ,    .  II,  Ch.  I. 

Soveral,  Marquis  of I,  92. 

Spiritualism I,  212. 

Spy  mania I,  160. 

Stephen,    James    K II,  58-0. 

[280] 


INDEX 

Stubbs,  Bishop I,  230. 

Symonds,  J.  A II,  38-41,  60-70. 

T 

Tadema,  Sir  Alma I,  75. 

Taylor,  Jerusha II,  251. 

Tennant,  Sir  Charles I,  20-35. 

Tennant,    Lady I,  35-45. 

Teainant,    Francis I,  18. 

Tennant,  Right  Hon.  H.  J I,  17. 

Tennant   family I,  Ch.  I. 

Tennyson,    Lionel II,  44,  81. 

Tennyson,  Lord II,  45,  54. 

"Thunderer" I,  183. 

"Titanic" I,  157. 

ToUet,    Miss I,  233. 

Traquair    Kirk    . I,  57. 

Tubb 1,  15. 

V 

Vaughan,   Kate I,  246. 

Victoria,  Queen I,  211;  II,  256. 

Voltaire I,  122. 

W 

Walker,  Frederick I,  24. 

Walter,   Arthur I,  174-6. 

Walter,   Catherine I,  35. 

Ward,  Mrs.  Humphry II,  107,   110,   111. 

Webb,   Godfrey I,  62;  II,  24-5,  77. 

WeUdon,      Mr II,  111. 

Wemyss  and  March,  Earl  of  ...     .  I,  30. 

Wemyss,  Countess  of II,  88-9. 

West,  Sir  Algernon II,  24. 

Whitman,    Phoebe I,  112-16. 

WiUans    family II,  191. 

Williams,  Sir  John II,  251-2. 

Williams,  John  E. II,  191. 


[281] 


INDEX 

WUson,  J.   M II,  111. 

Winsloe   family I,  35. 

Wood,  Inspector II,  161-3. 

Wormwood  Scrubs II,  237. 

Wyndham,  George 11,  22, 


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